


Peace of Mind

by yuyangs



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst and Romance, Getting Back Together, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Alternating, Past Relationship(s), Postdoc!Sakusa, Slow Burn, Summer Love, Underage Drinking, artist!Atsumu, atsumu has bad music taste, sakusa wears glasses bc i felt like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27911296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuyangs/pseuds/yuyangs
Summary: A milieu of colours surrounds him. Warm, cold, and everything in between. Some of the artworks are of human subjects, others are a little more abstract. It’s quite nice actually. He can admit that much.But something in the far corner catches his eye.It’s a painting of a beach. It feels familiar, almost like it’s scanned from his memory. He has been to that beach before. Only once, though.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 31
Kudos: 153
Collections: slow motion double vision in rose blush





	Peace of Mind

**Author's Note:**

> i was going crazy in the process of writing this fic and i'll have you know that it was thoroughly enjoyable.
> 
> the idea for it came one day when i invaded a friend's DM and said "hey, what if [august by taylor swift](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nn_0zPAfyo8) but sakuatsu?" and 162 screenshots of conversation, a chronological timeline, an 8 paged outline and 20k words later, this baby was born! it's been less than a week since i started Writing this. i feel unhinged.
> 
> the line that inspired this fic was:  
> "so much for summer love and saying "us", 'cause you weren't mine to lose."
> 
> mostly set in 2014 and 2023

Kiyoomi seems to have misplaced something which is inconvenient at best and uncharacteristic at worst. 

The book that he’s looking for, he’s sure that he placed it in his suitcase when he was packing for his move but maybe he actually packed it in the many boxes he brought along with him instead. This means that he was distracted enough to wrongly pack his things or packed them one way, but later convinced himself that he packed it differently. He’s not sure which one he hates more. He’s meticulous so that he doesn’t end up in a situation that could be troublesome for future-Kiyoomi and yet, here he is, taking out a knife from the kitchen to rip open one of these goddamn boxes.

He sighs. This is so stupid. He’s getting all worked up over a _book._

The first box is labeled as ‘books’, written in his neat scrawl. Kiyoomi knows that it’s probably not in this one but opens up the box anyway. He was right.

The next box he checks is the one with ‘important’ plastered on it. There’s nothing but documents in this box.

He groans, frustrated at the whims of past-Kiyoomi. He doesn’t bother to check the boxes labeled as ‘cutlery’ or ‘clothes’. When he rules them all out, there’s only one box left. This box is unlabeled. He sticks the knife in the center and rips open the tape anyway. Flipping the flaps open, he stops short at what he sees.

On top of all the items squeezed soundly in the box, is a stack of photos held together with a red string. In hindsight, he should have probably kept them in an album. _It’s for space,_ he thinks.

The photo he sees first is actually a polaroid. He was young in this photo, eighteen years old, a pair of black, box-rimmed glasses resting on his nose, but he wasn’t alone. This polaroid was taken at the airport before he moved back to Japan. On his right is a boy with a sneaky look in his eyes topped with brown hair, his arm around a sullen looking boy with dyed grey hair. On his left is someone who looks identical to the boy with grey hair except his hair is dyed blond and he is carrying a wide grin on his face. An ugly shade of mustard, he somehow made it work though. This boy’s hands and past-Kiyoomi’s aren’t visible in frame but Kiyoomi knows from memory that their hands were intertwined behind their backs, a secret that couldn’t be captured by a measly camera lens.

It was cold at the airport, the airconditioning blasted through the vents and made him shiver. The seasons changed in a matter of seconds, on the cusp of summer and fall.

“Don’t cry,” Kiyoomi had said when they were alone later that day. 

“I’m not crying, you fuckin’ asshole.” He was sniffling though and Kiyoomi frowned at that. “We’ll still call, right?” It was hopeful and shrouded in heartbreak.

“Of course. I’ll call you when I arrive and I’ll keep calling until I get sick of you,” he teased but the small smile didn’t really reach his eyes, because eighteen year old Kiyoomi, with the unruly curly hair and the awkward limbs, was just as much of a liar as the blond was.

Behind the polaroid is a photostrip. He doesn’t have that many pictures of himself and he doesn’t even remember packing these in the box but, hey, two for two. This one is just of him and the blond boy taken on a whim at some random photobooth most probably. The borders around the pictures are so ugly and tacky, stars and flowers surrounding them like the designer of the strip couldn’t decide on a concept. They should have just gone with polka dots.

It is so ridiculously corny, but even so, he still finds it in this unlabelled box of random items. He should have thrown it out ages ago.

But he didn’t.

He kept it until it was discovered.

“Is this your boyfriend?” A voice had asked. 

Kiyoomi looked up to face the man who was standing in his living room. He was eyeing the strip that was placed next to the other photos in the frames on Kiyoomi’s shelf.

This man was different from everything he knew; a year older, dark hair, the same height. He had an air of maturity that forced Kiyoomi to tell the truth even if he wanted to run at that given moment. All he could do back then was plant his feet on the ground and shake his head. Kiyoomi remained cool and collected when he said, “No.”

“Oh. Your ex, then.” 

“No.” He shook his head again. “It’s complicated,” he said while he wondered if it actually was.

Kiyoomi opens his eyes.

The four photos of them on the strip, frozen in time, stare back at him, blissfully unaware of what the future holds. The cheap plastic feels cold on his fingers.

He decides that he doesn’t want to keep discovering.

The book be damned. He looks at the clock on the wall and sees the way it ticks closer to eight AM. Kiyoomi doesn’t have to come in early today, they told him that it’ll just be a briefing in the afternoon.

The thrumming near his ears is telling him that this was all a mistake. Leaving Tokyo was a mistake and coming back to this town was a mistake. The buzz is asking him if he even cleaned the shower after using it earlier in the morning or if he turned off the kettle after making his tea. _Shut up,_ he wants to say to that worm that lives inside his head. He remembers it being called ‘the Grinch’ at one point.

Suddenly, Kiyoomi is in desperate need of coffee.

Soon, he’s putting a mask on his face, glasses slide on the bridge of his nose, and then he’s out of the door and walking across the faculty residence towards the coffee shop he discovered last week. It should be about fifteen minutes away on foot.

Kiyoomi remembers the first time he ever set foot in this town—ten years old, fresh from Japan, and not being able to form a sentence in English with much coherency. Adjusting was hard, especially when he wasn’t the type to make friends, neither did he have his cousin shielding him like he used to when they were growing up together in Tokyo. There were only two other Japanese families in this backwater, whitebread town a little ways north of other New England states. But that was about it. Not many people looked like him, could understand his tongue and his mannerisms. He was one of those weird kids. Different and quite literally foreign. It also didn’t help that he didn’t observe the normal in more ways than one. A radical that’s just hitting walls and trying to find a way to stabilise. Now, he can see that it’s not as bad as it was back then, at least not in this area. If this doesn’t work out, he can always run away to Canada.

He orders his coffee. Tall, light iced caramel macchiato, extra syrup, macadamia milk. Out of habit more than anything else, he quickly starts wiping down the chair and table before sitting down, methodical in his approach, practiced to perfection to produce the highest rate of efficiency. And then he sits down at one of the tables and finally allows himself to breathe a little. For all it’s worth, the coffee really is immaculate.

Probability is a finicky thing. Infinite numbers between zero and one. For most things in the world, probability never reaches the extremes, they remain in the in between of certain and not at all. The probability that it will rain today? Looking at the clouds that gather in the sky, Kiyoomi would make an educated guess of ‘likely’. The probability that a meteor will hurtle towards the cafe he sits in right now and destroy everything in its wake? Near zero but never zero. The probability of Kiyoomi accepting the flyer that is currently being shoved in his face? Unlikely.

But just as unlikely as taking this sheet being offered to him, the fact that his eyes can’t stop staring at the images on it is a testament as to how he can’t give his life up to chance. What are the odds that an art gallery flyer would pique his interest? 

He accepts the flyer with a small nod, looking up the address written in bold letters.

A little while later, he pulls out the mask from his ziploc and puts it on again, pinching it on the bridge of his nose before he adjusts his glasses. He doles out some sanitizer on his hands, firmly killing ninety-nine percent of the germs. He spares a look at his watch. He still has time.

The walk isn’t that far. Just a few blocks away. He’s not in a rush anyway so his steps are more leisurely than his normal brisk pace. He had missed this; the quiet of a small town, the fact that he can walk in the streets without feeling suffocated, the way he can never truly get lost in the meandering roads.

His feet take him to a building with large windows. It should be open this time around, at least, that’s what it said on the flier and what it says on the glass door in emboldened words. He opens the door and steps inside.

Kiyoomi has never really understood art that well, though he has an appreciation for it. He recognises hard work when he sees it, but he still thinks that a blank canvas with a singular dot in the center is bullshit. Thankfully, this particular exhibition is nothing like that.

A milieu of colours surrounds him. Warm, cold, and everything in between. Some of the artworks are of human subjects, others are a little more abstract. It’s quite nice actually. He can admit that much.

But something in the far corner catches his eye.

It’s a painting of a beach. It feels familiar, almost like it’s scanned from his memory. He has been to that beach before. Only once, though. But the painting seems to come to life, the brush strokes of the waves seem to move with the tides it depicts. The smell of the seaside air seems to waft around the room, leaking from the painting where sea meets land. He can almost hear a camera clicking beside him and a laughing voice that says, _Whoops! Sorry, Omi. I need a reference._

It’s weird. Unlikely, even.

The universe works as the process of unique events, that much he is sure. Life is a lot like that too. The Big Bang was a cosmological event, the birth of a child is a life event. The parting of two people also counts as one. Meeting, parting and meeting again could count as three singular events or one depending on how one person looks back on it in their lives.

Say a meteorite falls from the sky right now and hits Kiyoomi on the head, what is the probability of him surviving the force? The force of which blows the rock itself into smithereens? Would Kiyoomi also survive it without being blown into bits?

He doesn’t have much time to ponder on his thoughts but there is an answer there that he knows he won’t like.

Probability is finicky like that.

So when he hears a familiar voice behind him say,

“Omi?”

He doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is. This is what he is certain of. Probability: one. This is the start of a new event or the end of a collective. He still turns around though and meets the eyes of a memory, a photograph, someone who has fallen into a black hole and came out the other side to tell the tale. An initial unlikely that is actually _very_ likely now that he thinks about it.

It’s not exactly like a memory or a picture though. Atsumu looks older, his skin a healthy tan, and his hair is still blond but lighter in colour. Platinum blond. In other words, Atsumu looks good. In other words, it suits him. The shocked look in his eyes, however, does not.

“So it _is_ you!” Atsumu’s face looks a little funny and it makes something inside Kiyoomi twinge. Just a little.

“In the flesh,” he replies flatly, a vague hand gesture is lost somewhere in the awkwardness.

He sees the way Atsumu’s Adam’s apple bobs before he asks, “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I saw a flier,” Kiyoomi offers as an explanation. Suddenly, he really wants to leave.

But Atsumu shakes his head. “No, I mean _here_ as in America. Maine. Orono.”

“Ah.” The thing Kiyoomi should probably do is tell the simple truth. But it’s lodged up in his throat and he can’t seem to get the words out.

“Hey, Miya!” someone calls from somewhere in the room, briefly saving Kiyoomi from the impact of a rock going at seventy kilometers per second. But only briefly.

Atsumu calls back in acknowledgment and says that he’ll be right there soon. He has a theory that the Atsumu he sees is actually an apparition fueled by his subconscious. A magnetic force of his mind. He turns back to Kiyoomi, a familiar, easy smile on his lips.

Another inexplicable ache. His shoulders have been hurting a lot lately.

“I gotta go now, but tell you what, how about we catch up over dinner? We haven’t seen each other in ages and there’s a really good place a few streets down that I know you’ll like!”

What is the probability of Kiyoomi saying ‘yes’? Unlikely.

He shrugs. “Sure.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Kiyoomi would like everyone to know that he did _not_ want to come to this fucking party and was dragged against his will.

“It’ll be fun!” Rintarou said.

“I don’t believe that at all,” is what he retorted in return.

“Live a little, Ki.”

He’s never really been to one of these before. The thought of it genuinely disgusts him; bodies packing too close for his liking, furniture that smells like booze and smoke, and music that plays so loud his brain might explode. He’d rather sit in his room in the dark and watch a movie—something really good, groundbreaking and dare he say, life-changing. Something like _Revenge of the Sith._ (Spoiler alert: Anakin needed therapy and Yoda was a piece of shit.)

A high school party is exactly what he expected it to be: terrible. In the first half hour he manages to lose Rintarou somewhere in the crowd and he’s pretty sure that guy in the corner of the room is going to vomit on the floor. Kiyoomi feels a chill run down his spine as he sees the way that guy’s face turns pale and then a little green, holding his belly in a feeble attempt to stop the overflow of bile. 

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Kiyoomi does what any sane person would do in that situation, he runs out the room to the backyard, mentally citing the need for fresh air in a house filled with the stench of sweaty (dirty) high schoolers. The white mask on his face should serve as a protective layer against the unknown but he still feels a little rattled. It’s not working as well as it should.

It’s not exactly a panic attack, but he can feel the familiar brew of it in his stomach. He needs the earth to slow down a little. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. Practiced and familiar. _Calm down, idiot,_ he thinks to his shaking body. In due time, his breaths even out. His therapist would be proud.

It’s not that bad out here. The air is cooler when he’s the only person around, the sweltering heat of human bodies can’t reach him here—not under the stars of the night sky where the only thing he can think of is an _out there_ and a _somewhere._

He doesn’t want to go back inside, but Rintarou might be looking for him. He mentally juggles the pros and cons of braving a crowd of high schoolers again before he hears a slight cough behind him. He turns around.

It’s one of the Miya twins. This one has an ugly shade of blond hair so it has to be Atsumu.

“You can’t stand the crowd either?” Atsumu asks, smiling at him, easy and it also looks practiced.

He’s known Atsumu since they were kids but he’s pretty sure this is the first time they’ve ever spoken outside of the chore of delivering the food that their mother’s cooked to each other’s doorstep and then collecting the tupperware later on.

“Oh,” one of them would say when they open the door.

“Yeah,” is the typical response during these encounters.

It’s one of those things where they didn’t talk because they couldn’t. At least not when they were kids. The language barrier of a kid who spent his early childhood in Japan versus a third gen immigrant who lives in a town that’s predominantly white with only one other Japanese family around proved to be far too difficult. Which is why he ended up talking to Rintarou for most of his childhood post-move. Rintarou moved here from New York two years prior to himself. He could speak Japanese and it’s one of the two things that Kiyoomi has always been grateful for. The other being his mother’s great mochi. But he shouldn’t be chalking up that win to Rintarou. He’s an asshole like that.

Kiyoomi doesn’t say a word but nods in return.

“Hm, I get that.” Atsumu nods. “Wanna sit?”

He eyes the chair beside the other, scrutinising the wooden surface. He takes out the pack of wipes in his pocket and cleans the chair before sitting down. If Atsumu is weirded out, he doesn’t show it.

“Beer?”

Kiyoomi looks up to see Atsumu holding out a can towards him.

“I took this for myself but you probably need it more than I do,” he says before taking a sip from a solo cup. He probably got it from one of the kegs inside. The dirty kegs.

Kiyoomi takes the can, wiping down the cold aluminium in his hands before he cracks it open, hearing it hiss in the silence around them. He pulls the mask covering his face under his chin and takes a few sips. It’s bitter on his tongue and burning in his throat. After a few moments, all he can taste is a slight sweetness.

Atsumu keeps talking. He probably feels awkward that Kiyoomi hasn’t said a thing since he got here. Normally, incessant talking would be annoying but for some reason, Kiyoomi finds himself not minding. He pushes the frames that start to slip down back up his nose. 

“You know, I never thought I’d ever see you at one of these. Didn’t look like your scene,” is what Kiyoomi hears when he finally tunes back in.

“It’s not,” Kiyoomi says, finally speaking up. “My scene, I mean.”

Atsumu huffs out a laugh. “Figures. Rin dragged you here?”

“Yeah.” 

“He’s a little bitch. Off to god knows where with my brother no doubt.” He does an exaggerated shiver in his chair. “It’s so gross.”

“What about you though?” Kiyoomi asks. “How come you’re not inside? I thought it would be _your_ scene?”

“Well, yeah I do like parties. It’s fun to let loose and be mindless but I don’t feel like doing that sometimes. So most of the time I’m the designated driver. Not tonight, though. I won a bet against ‘Samu, so he has to drive.”

Kiyoomi furrows his eyebrows. It’s supposed to be an explanation but he’s more confused now than he was two minutes ago.

“Why do I feel like that’s only half the truth?” Kiyoomi outwardly thinks and the air fills with warm laughter, Atsumu’s laughter.

“You caught me there. I’m mostly out here hiding.”

He quirks up an eyebrow. “From what?”

“They wanted to play beer pong so I bounced. I’m not good at it and I don’t feel like losing and getting wasted.”

“That’s it?”

This time, it’s Atsumu’s turn to look confused. “Yeah. It’s embarrassing.” 

“That’s pretty stupid. Just refuse them.”

“That’s even worse!”

“I’ve always had an inkling but you really are an idiot.”

Atsumu frowns. “Can’t you go easy on a guy? Damn.”

“I mean, I get not wanting to be embarrassed and everything but your reason for hiding is so completely idiotic. Isn’t this situation completely avoidable?”

A pause.

“You suck at consoling.” Kiyoomi wasn’t trying to but the other stares at him for a few moments, eyes searching his face for something Kiyoomi doesn’t know. “You know, you’re kind of a jerk but you’re like… not half bad. I guess.” He shrugs.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Well, you certainly meet _all_ of my expectations?”

“I’m irresistibly charming?”

“No, you’re an ass.”

Atsumu laughs again, and it rings in his ears. It shouldn’t feel pleasant but it does. Why? 

Kiyoomi poses a hypothesis, one that is born from his observations: the smiling boy in front of him is a threat to his sanity.

He predicts it’s the beer that is making his senses and muscles fall out of shape. That’s the logical explanation as to why he feels a strange warmth in his chest, why his tongue has been loosened in their banter, how he feels like he knows this person without actually knowing him all that well.

“How come we’ve never spoken before?” Atsumu asks.

“Probably because I’m a jerk,” he answers flatly.

“Boo. Don’t sulk, Omi.”

And he freezes for a second or a year. Still in time as Atsumu acts like nothing just happened. His movements are way too fast for Kiyoomi’s mind to catch up to. Does he not also feel that the earth has been knocked off its axis or that it’s hurtling towards the sun?

“Who said you could call me that? We aren’t friends.”

“You’re so mean! You probably know me best. Well, second best after ‘Samu,” he adds after drunken consideration.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re talking to me when I’m _slightly_ tipsy which means that you basically know all there is to know about me.”

“I really don’t though.” He bites his lower lip.

There is a slight issue in this test, one that he should have foreseen earlier. His subject keeps making outrageous claims that Kiyoomi doesn’t actually hate.

Suddenly, all he feels is warmth. It blooms in his chest and spreads through his body to the tips of his fingers and his toes. This is all incomprehensible. The worm in his head is yelling at him.

_Are you sure you wiped that can you’re holding?_

Yes, he’s sure. To make it more evident, he takes a long swig.

It burns his body again and Atsumu whistles beside him.

“Whew, that was a big one, Omi.”

In his seat, Kiyoomi squirms and tries really hard to not make it obvious. “You’re right, this _isn’t_ my scene but Rin dragged me here. And it’s graduation anyway. I might as well. He said that I needed to live a little.”

“Are you though?” Atsumu asks, staring right at him with those bright eyes. In all their talking, he has somehow gotten closer without Kiyoomi even noticing. Suddenly, all he needs now is a small nudge, a slight tug, to close the gap.

He feels his throat drying. “Am I what?”

“Living a little?” There’s a small smirk forming on the other’s lips. It's infuriating to say the least; how something so mundane, so normal, can make Kiyoomi feel like he’s burning from the inside-out. Maybe the alcohol is finally getting to him. Because like an insect that’s attracted to light—to instant death, Kiyoomi finds himself inching closer to the other. He’s in a trance.

“Maybe,” he whispers.

When their lips meet, it isn’t horrible. Atsumu’s lips are soft against his and he was right, it _is_ death—warm, welcoming, and certain death. The positioning is a little awkward, his glasses get in the way at first but then Atsumu tilts his head and Kiyoomi feels himself melting. His head buzzes but he ignores it, the alcohol in his system laxing whatever inhibitions he might have had. Suddenly, all he wants to do is to kiss Atsumu, and kiss him, he does. But as quickly as their lips meet, they also pull away far too early for Kiyoomi’s preference, which is weird. _Wrong,_ the faint buzzing supplies. _Go away,_ his heart gasps in return.

Face inches apart, Atsumu stares at him for a few beats. For the first time the whole night, his face is guarded with an unreadable expression, and then he says words that Kiyoomi decides he hates the most.

“I’m sorry,” Atsumu says as his eyes dart downwards. Maybe he isn’t completely drunk.

“For what?”

Atsumu bites his lip and looks nervous which is even _weirder._ His face is a little red. The Asian flush. “Kissing you like that. I know how you are, I shouldn’t’ve made you uncomfortable.”

But Kiyoomi shakes his head. “I wasn’t uncomfortable. And you shouldn’t be sorry.” But maybe it’s Kiyoomi that’s drunk.

Slowly, the other boy nods and then with a small smile, he says, “Okay.”

In his conundrum, Kiyoomi has yet to find an answer.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Atsumu leans against his car that he parked just in front of the restaurant. To anyone else, he’s just some random dude on the side of the street that’s minding his own business, but they don’t see the sheer panic that he’s in right at this moment. He has his phone out. Quickly, he dials the number of the only person he can think of to unpack his entire morning to.

His brother picks up after two beeps.

“What do you want?” is what he hears instead of a greeting.

“Omi’s back,” Atsumu says, a little faster and more frantic than he would have liked. He’s supposed to be suave goddammit.

The line is silent for a few moments and then,

“Tell me you didn’t ask him out.” It’s accusatory but dry, like he didn’t actually need confirmation because he already _knows._ Atsumu is realising that he hates twin telepathy.

“To dinner. It’s not a date—”

“ARE YOU FUCKIN’ KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?”

“Why are you yelling at me? The fuck.”

“‘Tsumu, are you out of your mind? Did you forget what happened last time you two got involved?” his brother asks, exasperated.

“No.” He remembers it all too well, actually. And yet he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of his lips at the first sight of the other man. He was hypnotised, most likely. How else could he explain the way he felt drawn to him like a foolish boy with wax wings who was flying towards the sun? All Atsumu knows now is that it has long since melted; he fell, he is falling, and he will continue to fall.

“Then you should know that this is a bad idea.”

“It’s not like he’s gonna run away—”

“And if he does?”

Atsumu frowns. “No. He has a job here. Apparently, he’s teaching.” At least, Atsumu is assuming so when Kiyoomi told him that he has work at the university around here. “He was always good at it, remember?” 

“No, I don’t fucking remember.” His brother is as unrelenting as ever. “You do know he can just ghost you again, right? He’s done it before.”

“You’re being an asshole, ‘Samu.”

“‘Tsumu. I’m not being an asshole, I am saving _your_ ass from the mess I know you’re gonna put yourself in. I don’t like this repeat, okay? I hated seeing you like that,” Osamu mutters.

“He’s not gonna run. He agreed to hang out with me, didn’t he?” At this point, Atsumu knows that he’s trying to convince himself before anyone else. Just like how he couldn’t help asking that question when he saw Kiyoomi again, now he can’t help but doubt all of his actions. It would have been easy to just say their ‘hello’s and then never see each other again. But Atsumu doesn’t like doing things like that. Seeing Kiyoomi again felt like a slap to the face. He’s not holding onto past memories or anything. That’s not it. It’s not. Really. 

What he feels right now is the thirst for the now. He wants to know who _this_ Kiyoomi is. Why did he come back after so long? And why does he still look at him like how he did nine years ago?

“Are you sure you didn’t force him?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I didn’t force him last time either. All of you just suck and thought I held him hostage.” Why is he even getting berated right now? He should be fucking praised for keeping it cool. He's Atsumu _fucking_ Miya.

“‘Tsumu, I had first hand experience of how you let him drive you stupid. Who exactly are these people that thought _you_ had _him_ wrapped around your finger?”

Atsumu takes in a sharp breath. “Fuck you, ‘Samu.”

From the distance, he sees a familiar mop of curly black hair approaching him. Fuck.

“Gotta go, ‘Samu. He’s here.”

“Now wait—” is all he hears before he ends the call.

Turning towards the other man, he smiles as normally as he possibly can. “You’re here.”

“It wasn’t hard to find.” Flat, void of any intonation. Sometimes, Kiyoomi speaks as if he’s reading from a textbook. To the untrained eye, it looks like he’s not interested in being here. But he’s here, isn’t he?

“Should we go in?”

Kiyoomi looks down at him, and Atsumu can almost imagine his mouth forming a straight line underneath the white mask that covers his face. “Isn’t that the point?” Fuck. He’s so stupid.

In many ways, some things haven’t changed. Namely; the way Kiyoomi would take his time wiping his seat with wet wipes before he sits down, the way his eyes dart around the room like he’s sure that a leper might jump out from somewhere behind the various hiding spots in the establishment, the curl of his inky hair when it cascades down his forehead in waves, black brush strokes on porcelain, the way his tongue peeps out of his mouth slightly as he skims over the menu. But many things have changed as well; Kiyoomi now sports glasses that are metal framed, golden in colour, and a little rounder in shape, he’s also older, made evident with how his jaw is now defined and how he grew into his frame, limbs no longer lanky, the muscles in his arms seemingly taut, and from what Atsumu can tell, his fashion sense has greatly improved in the nine years they haven’t seen each other. In short, Kiyoomi just got hotter.

“Would you quit staring at me?” a voice says. Kiyoomi’s voice. He continues to flip through the menu like he didn’t just incriminate Atsumu in public. He had sanitised his hands and taken off his mask earlier before keeping it in a small ziploc. His lips are pink, Atsumu notices.

“Can’t help it. Hardly believe that you’re real in the first place. Are you actually a clone?”

“If I was, I would be a toddler.”

“That you are.”

Kiyoomi finally looks up and squints at him. “What’s your deal?”

“I wanna eat dinner.”

“Eyes on the menu then.”

‘I don’t need it. I live here, remember?”

A pause.

“That’s fair.” As if practiced, Kiyoomi shuts the menu hard but soundless. “You order for me.”

He does order. Roast chicken for Kiyoomi and the lobster for himself.

Kiyoomi stares at his plate. “Did you order us this so that you could steal my food and I wouldn’t be able to take a bite of yours?”

Atsumu laughs, it bubbles up from his belly and leaves his mouth in warmth. “You caught me red handed, Omi.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time today.” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and starts cutting up a small portion of his meal before he places it onto Atsumu’s plate. “Here.”

  
  


What follows is an impromptu interrogation between bites.

“But seriously though!” Atsumu slams his palms on the table, a little louder than he thought it would be. Whoops. “It’s crazy that you’re back here, Omi. Are you teaching? I mean, I assumed that you are.”

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “No, not exactly. I’m doing a postdoc right now. It’s not as easy to get on the tenure track when I did all my degrees in Japan. So, I’m mostly on research and I’ll only teach sometimes.”

“Well, you were always good at it.” At this, Atsumu sees the way the colour rushes to Kiyoomi’s face. He rattles all possibility from his mind. It’s just the trick of the light, he decides. “Still, you moved all the way here. That’s still a little nuts.”

“Not that nuts. It wasn’t like it was hard.”

The air shifts between them and Atsumu finds himself frowning. _Was it hard the first time?_ is the question that he actually wants to ask. But instead, another tumbles from his lips, one that is just as transparent, just as culpable. Again. 

“You didn’t leave anyone important behind? A partner, maybe?” 

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “No, I don’t have anyone like that. I recently got out of a relationship.”

“Oh.”

Kiyoomi seems to grimace a little, squirming in his seat. He used to do that a lot, too. Another thing that has stayed the same. “What about you?”

Atsumu smiles. “Nah, I was always too busy.”

The man in front of him looks at him a little funny before he nods slowly. “I guess we’re both on the same boat.”

Wanting to change the topic as fast as he can, Atsumu says, “It’ll be fun when you meet the guys again though. I think Rintarou would be happy that you’re back.”

Kiyoomi tilts his head. “He saw me last week, though.”

At this, Atsumu feels his body run cold. “Did he now?”

“He helped me move my boxes, actually. He didn’t tell you?” There’s a pinch in the center of his forehead.

“Might have slipped his mind. He’s out of town a lot for work so he must’ve not gotten the chance.” Atsumu goes for another smile, trying to smooth out the creases on the other’s face. Miraculously, it works.

But Kiyoomi looks down at their empty plates and then sighs. “It’s getting late. I should go.”

Atsumu nods and they head out after paying for the bill.

It’s cold but it’s not anything that he isn’t used to. When Atsumu turns towards the other, he seems to be struggling. His cheeks are flushed, red from the cold and it briefly reminds Atsumu of something that was mentioned in the past.

_I hate the heat but I hate the cold even more._

“Are you okay?” Atsumu asks.

“Yeah, just a little cold.” He doesn’t seem okay. But Kiyoomi has always been stubborn.

He tries to bite his tongue, but he can’t. “I can give you a ride back if you want? At least there’s a heater in my car.”

Kiyoomi finally looks at him, eyes black like the night that surrounds them. He can never seem to read those eyes. “Maybe some other time,” Kiyoomi says before he bids his goodbye and leaves just as suddenly as he appeared.

  
  


“You’re so full of shit, ‘Samu,” he says instead of a greeting, pushing his way into his brother’s apartment.

“What—”

“You knew the whole time, didn’t you?” Atsumu accuses. He feels the rage burn up in his chest. Where there was a hearth just hours ago, is now a bonfire, reaching the sky like the flames of hell that would lick your feet before you plummet into them.

There’s a brief silence before,

“Of course I knew! Why did you think I was so against it?” His brother huffs. “He sometimes contacts Rin. Mostly on New Year’s and birthdays, though.”

“So you’ve been updated this entire time?”

“Well, not really—”

“And you didn’t think this is something you should share with me?”

Osamu scoffs. “Hell no. You didn’t need to know. Why the hell would I tell you what goes on with your ex anyway?”

Despite everything, Atsumu laughs. It’s cold, like the encroaching winter that whispers to them in the late fall evening. “Nah, this isn’t about that. This is about you keeping _secrets_ from me.”

“Listen,” Osamu says, “I only found out that he was coming back recently, okay? And I didn’t want to tell you, let alone have you guys meet because I’m _worried._ It’s not like I hate Kiyoomi either. I just don’t trust you two to be in the same room without eventually breaking each other.”

Atsumu sighs. “‘Samu, that was teenager bullshit. I can take care of myself now.”

“Didn’t sound like it when you called me earlier.”

“I was panicking.”

“Oh, really? I didn’t notice.”

“You suck.” He lets out a breath, suddenly tired. “Next time, just tell me. Also, stop being worried about me, it makes me think that you care which is gross.”

What he gets in return, is a pillow from the couch thrown haphazardly to his face.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Atsumu doesn’t really know how he did it, but all he does know is that he did.

Here he is at an arcade with fucking Kiyoomi Sakusa of all people. Now, he knows all about how Kiyoomi is somewhat of a germaphobe. He’s seen the guy in the school hallways with a mask, he’s seen how he flinches when other people get too close to him, he’s seen the way Kiyoomi opens the door with a sleeve covering his fingers. It’s not that he stares. That’s _definitely_ not it. Atsumu is just observant.

But they’re no longer the vague acquaintances they were throughout childhood up until graduation last week. They’re different now. Somewhere past the beginning of something but that something is still just as vague. So that’s why when Atsumu asked if he wanted to hang out today, he was surprised that Kiyoomi actually agreed to it.

Yes, they kissed. That was weird but they don’t talk about it. He would like to think that they don’t really have to. It was just a kiss and this is just pleasant company. Plus, he needed to get away from his brother and said brother’s boyfriend (gross).

“Why an arcade?” Kiyoomi asks behind the muffle of his mask.

“I thought it would be fun.”

“Right. I’ll probably just… watch. For the most part,” he trails off.

And then a realisation hits Atsumu. Kiyoomi doesn’t like parties. Why did he think a goddamn arcade would be any better? Is he actually an idiot? He’s an idiot, right?

Turning towards the other, he says, a little incoherently. “Sorry! I forgot. I wasn’t thinking. I mean I was. I think I thought that since you showed up at the party, this wouldn’t be so bad but then I just remembered that neither of us were actually _there._ So, uh. We can leave. Actually. Yeah, we can leave.”

“Miya,” Kiyoomi says, gaze piercing right through him. “It’s fine. Probably.”

“Probably?”

As if to prove a point, Kiyoomi whips out a packet of wet wipes and a box of disposable latex gloves from his bag. “I came prepared. And it’s not like I didn’t agree to it. It’s somewhat like exposure therapy to me.”

“Oh. Okay, then.”

A few games, a crushing defeat at _Dance Dance Revolution,_ and a won fox plushie later, they somehow end up at a McDonald’s parking lot, dipping fries into their ice cream. Convincing the other to also sit on the hood of his car was pretty hilarious but he knows that deep down, Kiyoomi just wants to feel comfortable. So he let him do whatever rituals he needed to do before leaning on against the cold metal, feet grazing on the gravel beneath them.

“This song is terrible,” is the first thing Kiyoomi says since they first sat down. He takes a bite out of the fry. Clean, poised, chewed slowly like he’s been raised as the prince of his household. Atsumu would believe it actually.

But he can’t stand the obvious insult.

Atsumu gasps, as exaggerated as he can, which is, granted, not very difficult to do. “You don’t like _Fancy?_ Omi, this is a summer hit! How do you get by listening to the radio?”

“I don’t.”

“Now you’re crossing a line.”

“You’re so weird. And way too loud. Iggy can’t rap and _Fancy_ actually _sucks._ ”

“Okay, since _you’re_ such a music connoisseur; if you were held at gunpoint and had to sing a song that you know all of the lyrics to, what would that song be?”

A sharp breath leaves Kiyoomi’s nose. Something akin to a tug at the corner of his lips. “Easy. _Fergalicious._ ” What the hell is he looking so smug for?

Atsumu can’t help the burst of laughter that leaves his stomach in waves. Still gripping his belly with one hand and wiping the tears with the other, he asks between cackles, “Seriously? You’re berating Iggy but defending Fergie?”

And serious, Kiyoomi is. The boy nods slowly and says, “Yeah. Rin made me learn it when I was still learning English. That’s probably the first song I ever memorised. And for the record, I will _always_ defend a Black Eyed Pea.”

“That sounds awful but it also makes sense. Even though, it’s fucking hilarious. Did anyone ever tell you that you’re funny?”

“You imply I have people surrounding me and that’s weird.”

“You talk like a robot.”

“Well, you talk like a child.”

He dips his fry into the ice cream again and frowns at the soggy mess. It’s all melted now. When did that happen? Everything seems to succumb to mid-June heat. A limp fry topped with stickiness, the sweat that sticks on his back, the nausea of something that’s to come. Atsumu can see now why this would seem disgusting to Kiyoomi.

“Hey, Omi?”

He gets a hum in response that tells him that the boy in question is listening to him.

“Tell me something that most people don’t know about you.”

“That could be anything.”

“Just stick to the game, dammit.”

He hears a sigh beside him. “Well, I’m allergic to shellfish. So I carry an epipen with me all the time.”

“Forreal? You’re allergic to shellfish?”

Kiyoomi turns to him, a funny expression on his face. Atsumu kind of wants to laugh at him again. “Why would I lie about this?”

“ _Shellfish?_ Omi, you’re Japanese and we’re in the lobster state. You’re missin’ out!”

“You know what? Shut up.”

And then they just start arguing over nothing.

(“Marvel or DC?” “Again, that’s easy. DC, though I think Thor is cool.” “So your type is tall, blond and handsome?” “Shut up, Miya.”)

And then it evolves into stupid movie talk.

(“ _John Tucker Must Die_ is actually peak cinema.” “No, the _Star Wars_ prequels are.” “Those movies are _stupid,_ Omi. No one but Natalie Portman could act.” “You take that back, you piece of shit.”)

Atsumu learns that the stupid prequels is why Kiyoomi started to have a fascination with space in the first place. It’s all fiction and illogical in every scientific aspect, but when Kiyoomi tries to explain why he loves the movies so much, Atsumu finds himself not even listening. He’s too intent on—no, enamoured by—the light in Kiyoomi’s eyes as he talks about this dumb movie series. All Atsumu can see are the stars in those deep black depths of his gaze. He gets it. He should share some things too.

“Well, I wanted to be a painter because of _Titanic._ ”

“Leonardo DiCaprio literally _dies_ in that movie, Miya.”

“But it was so romantic!”

“It was stupid.”

“You just don’t understand _romance,_ Omi.”

Kiyoomi looks at him and frowns, just slightly. Atsumu has learned throughout their hang out that that’s his thinking face, not to be confused with the slight frown of his actually pissed off face. Whatever it is that the other is thinking about, Atsumu doesn’t find out what because he asks Kiyoomi a question.

“What are you doing after the summer, Omi?”

The other looks away now, straight ahead at the dull lights of the golden arches in front of them.

“What about you?” Kiyoomi asks back.

“Art school. Rhode Island. It’ll be so weird to not be in the same place as ‘Samu but what’s even weirder is that I’m kinda excited.”

Kiyoomi fiddles with his fry. He doesn’t strike as someone who would play with food. “Well, my family is planning on moving back actually. To Japan, I mean.”

Atsumu’s ears perk up. “Really?”

“Yeah. They’ve been wanting to go back for ages but they wanted to wait until I finished high school. It’s fine though. It’ll be just like going back home.”

“I get it.”

There’s a silent agreement between them. A ticking clock that grows louder as they sit in the parking lot in silence. The fries and ice cream are long forgotten. If they notice that the hands between them are touching, they don’t say a word about it.

Instead,

“Hey, Miya?”

“Yeah?”

“This is a pretty pathetic excuse for stargazing.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Kiyoomi is reading when his mother walks into his room with a funny expression on her face.

“Ki-chan,” she says in Japanese. “I think one of the Miya boys is outside the house and he’s been throwing rocks at the wrong window.”

“What?”

She laughs. “He’s a little silly but it’s quite an earnest gesture, isn’t it? I'm happy you have such a good friend, Ki-chan.”

“Well, we’re leaving in three weeks so what’s the point?”

“There’s nothing wrong with making friends.” His mother smiles at him. “You should go outside before he breaks the window by accident.”

Sighing, he puts on a mask, slides his glasses on, grabs his backpack that he knows is filled with his supplies, and heads out the house. It’s a little warmer now. Early August. It is slowly reaching the peak of midsummer and Kiyoomi is somewhat grateful for the weather. It’s hot now yes, but he’d take anything over the cold.

Kiyoomi finds Atsumu when he rounds the corner, and the boy is still throwing rocks at the window. 

“That’s my parents’ room, you idiot.”

Atsumu whips around and smiles at him. No, more like he _grins_ at him, all teeth and crinkled eyes. “Omi!” he says. Kiyoomi is ninety-nine percent sure he got confused with the house layout.

“Hi. What are you doing here,” he asks, but it doesn’t quite come out like a question.

Atsumu doesn’t seem to care though because he grabs Kiyoomi’s sleeve and pulls at it. There’s something pricking at him now. It’s a little uncomfortable but he tries to ignore it, still.

“There’s a carnival next town over. Let’s go.”

Kiyoomi scrunches up his face, all bunched and uncomfortable like the clothes he throws into his hamper, which is… gross now that he thinks about it. He should stop thinking about it. He should stop thinking. Period. 

“You know I hate that shit, right?” Kiyoomi says, his mouth in a line.

“Come on! It’ll be like we’re telling that Grinch in your head to fuck off!”

How does Atsumu know that there are currently sirens and blaring words of warning swarming in his head that’s telling him that this is all a bad idea? All these words collect like rain in a bucket, dropping into it one by one before it slowly overflows and spills and Kiyoomi feels like drowning.

But then he hears another voice, one that is familiar and brighter, Atsumu’s voice. And this voice says, _In the end, it’s just a bucket, Omi. We can always mop it up._

“Okay,” is what Kiyoomi says, knowing full well that he might regret it.

They don’t go on any of the rides, Atsumu knows well enough that Kiyoomi would be uncomfortable. They mostly walk around and eat the food. At one point, they play one of the games and Kiyoomi wins a prize. He gives it to Atsumu this time. A weasel plushie. He says it’s dirty so he doesn’t want it. The boy just laughs at him and pretends like he doesn’t know what Kiyoomi means.

But then Atsumu tugs at his sleeve again. “Hey Omi, let’s go there!”

He glances at what the boy is referring to and frowns. “A photobooth? Really, Atsumu?”

“Yeah! It’ll be fun.”

“It won’t.”

“That’s only because you don’t wanna have fun.”

So he lets himself get dragged, not wanting to prove Atsumu right because a correct Atsumu means that the world is thrown off axis. He won’t give the other the satisfaction. That’s it.

“Smile!”

He tries to. It’s small and a little meek. It’s the most Kiyoomi is willing to give him.

A flash.

“Hey, Omi,” Atsumu suddenly says.

Kiyoomi turns to him, “What—”

Atsumu reaches out a hand and cups his jaw, a tug on the corner of his mouth.

Another flash.

Atsumu leans in and presses their lips together in a soft kiss.

A third flash.

Atsumu rests his head on Kiyoomi’s shoulder and sighs.

The final flash.

“This is nice, Omi,” he whispers.

“I hate you so much right now.”

There is an ache in his chest, one that bares witness to the deadline of their relationship. There is a looming end that he knows is so near. It wasn’t supposed to be much when it started but now, Kiyoomi is scared.

He doesn’t want to lose this but he knows that he will.

Suddenly, he feels a finger run down the palm of his hand, like it’s trying to memorise all the slopes and bumps and crevices. All his secrets are present in this palm, and they’re being drawn out into oblivion.

When Atsumu eventually holds his hand, there is nothing but silence in his head. Peaceful quiet.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The thing about mathematics is that there are patterns in its philosophy. The multiplication table is a set of numbers that adhere to a prescribed pattern and number sequences exist in a pattern. Patterns here doesn’t mean object but aspects of the object. Mathematics helps us understand the laws that govern the universe and how the people that reside in it live.

There is a statistical pattern in the birth rate of human babies. In most countries, it’s decreasing.

When a pattern repeats over and over again, it’s called a cycle. The most well known cycle that everyone in the world experiences is the change in seasons. And currently, Kiyoomi is at the worst portion of this particular phenomenon.

The brown leaves and the chill in the air signify only one thing: aching shoulders.

Kiyoomi hates how cold it’s getting. He should have expected it with the new school year but fuck, he hates it still. Why the fuck does this town have to be so goddamn cold all year round? He’s pouring through journals when his phone rings. He doesn’t spare a glance at the caller ID before he picks it up.

“Hello?” he says.

“Hey, Omi. Are you free for lunch?”

Ah. Of course. He knew this would happen. He still cringes whenever he remembers the way he accepted the dinner invitation so easily last week. He has probably lost his mind.

“I’m a little busy right now, Atsumu.”

“You gotta eat, Omi.” 

Well, Atsumu’s right but he would never admit it. Not without a price.

“I’ll eat if you’re buying.”

Atsumu laughs. “What, now you’re mooching off of me? What happened to the Omi I know?”

“He got old and he has to pay rent.”

“Don’t we all?” Kiyoomi can imagine that _obnoxious_ grin on his face. And despite everything, something similar sneaks up to his lips as well.

Fuck. He has really gone insane.

  
  


“So tell me about Japan. What did you do for fun there? How was it?”

Kiyoomi sighs. “I don’t get you. Why are you so curious about it?”

Atsumu rolls his eyes at him. _Atsumu_ rolled his eyes at _him._ “Omi, I know you’re a robot but there’s something humans have called curiosity. Didn’t _Star Wars_ tap in that curiosity for you? Now you’re what? Teaching people about stars or some shit?” _Astrophysics,_ Kiyoomi doesn’t say. “Anyway, what I was getting at is that it’s normal for me to _wonder_ about what the hell you’ve been up to since your absence in the last nine years or so. Does that not answer your dumb question?”

Kiyoomi frowns at his burger, thinking about the years in the motherland. He settles on, “It was cold.”

Atsumu tilts his head, a crease forming on his forehead. He looks stupid like this and it makes Kiyoomi want to laugh. “Isn’t it colder here, though?”

Thinking back, Orono really is colder. Much, much colder. But Tokyo just felt too… much. Too much. Too many people. Too many streets. Too many regrets.

It rained a lot then. Sometimes it was just a drizzle, but most of the time it was pouring out. Buckets of rainwater would be thrown out. So many buckets.

He thinks back to how every time he wanted to go to the beach, it would rain. And every time he could go, it was too crowded. His anxiety didn’t do well in the city of his early childhood. It was foreign and strange to him, no longer the beacon of comfort he felt when he dreamed of the smell of melon bread on the nights where he was made fun of at school when he was twelve. On most days, he didn’t feel like a person anymore. He was barely a person. Limbs cut off until he was merely a torso with a beating heart and a thinking head. He hated it. He hated how much he ended up hating Tokyo. 

“No, it’s not as cold as it is here. It was just a little unbearable,” he says.

Atsumu nods. “I get that. College was hard for me, too.”

Kiyoomi scoffs. “You’ve always gotten it. Somehow.”

“Well, it’s because I’m curious. I try to.”

 _You do,_ he doesn’t say.

“Is that why you’re always pestering me like a kid?” is what he says instead.

What he gets in return is a hearty laugh and Kiyoomi starts to wonder where the lines of past and present start to blur. He’s felt like this before, distantly, somewhere in the corners of his memory. He would like to squander that feeling as fast as he can.

“Yeah, but I’m not eighteen and stupid anymore,” Atsumu says.

“No, you’re just twenty-seven and stupid.”

“I resent that.”

“I’m sure you do.”

When he’s back in his room later in the day, he thinks about that distant past. He thinks about the Atsumu he knew who would put in the effort, so much so that Kiyoomi felt like it was worth it. It was worth being swept away for three months.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Kiyoomi remembers an invitation he had made.

It was shy and quiet. It came a month and a half into their whatever it was they were doing. He whispered it to Atsumu one night, eyes looking down as he felt his ears burn.

“My parents are away next weekend, Miya,” he had said, not able to feign nonchalance.

“Are you sure?”

He breathed out a little heavily. “Yes.”

And a smile was what he got in return.

A week later, he found himself pulling Atsumu through the front door and guiding him around the empty house that was half packed in boxes. When they got to his room, he told Atsumu that he was nervous. And the boy in turn told him that he was nervous too. When they kissed again, it was silent. When they moved together, there were only heartbeats and breaths.

That night was the first night Kiyoomi ever called him ‘Atsumu’.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Atsumu has a grand idea of bonding time between his brother and Kiyoomi.

“How about we go on a short trip?”

Osamu doesn't raise his head from where he is shaping the _onigiri._ His hands press firmly around the rice before he wraps it with _nori._

“That’s pretty random, ‘Tsumu.”

“We can do it on the weekend! You, me, Rin and Omi.”

A clatter.

And then,

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKIN’ MIND?” he heaves. “What makes you think I would want to hang out with him after everything?”

Suddenly, Atsumu has never been more glad that he came to his brother’s store after closing time.

“Come on!” Atsumu whines. “It’ll be so much fun.”

“If this is all a ploy to make me give my blessings to whatever the fuck is going on between you two right now then no.” And then he squints. “Did he put you up to this?”

“What? No. Nothing is going on! We’re just friends.” Atsumu frowns. “I haven’t even told him about this yet.”

“Have fun without me then.”

There’s only one way to make his brother agree. He has to pull out this trump card now or all the vague planning will go to waste.

“Rin is gonna be there.”

  
  


A week later, they're on the road to Quebec. He drives while Rintarou sits beside him, acting as wayfinder because Kiyoomi is navigationally blind and Osamu is too busy being a prissy bitch.

“Why Quebec?” Kiyoomi asks, a muffle in his voice as a white mask covers his mouth.

Honestly, Atsumu is still trying to process the fact that he even agreed to come with them.

“It’s far enough for a daytrip but close enough that it’s not New Jersey. Plus, we’ve been to Quebec before.”

Rintarou lights up. “Oh yeah! How could I forget that? Spring of 2016 was something else.”

“What did you guys do then?”

“Oh, we were just hanging out,” Atsumu says.

At this, Osamu laughs. Or cackles, Atsumu isn’t sure but all he knows is that Osamu might say something that would very much lead to all of their deaths.

“We went there for a concert,” Osamu says, a chill to his voice.

“Yeah, Atsumu won us tickets!” Rintarou adds. Wait.

Suddenly, beads of sweat roll down Atsumu’s back.

“What concert?”

Looking at the rear view mirror, he can see, very well he might add, that Kiyoomi is staring dead at him. A quirk in his eyebrow.

But it’s Osamu who answers, the little bitch he is.

“It was Rihanna’s ANTI World Tour.”

“Yeah, Ki. You missed out on all the fun!” Rintarou pipes up.

_Does no one else in this goddamn car realise what the fuck is happening?_

“Ah. I see.”

After that, Kiyoomi doesn’t speak for the rest of the ride. By the time Atsumu and Osamu switch seats, Kiyoomi is still looking out the window, his mask has long since been pulled down and he has a blank expression on his face. 

Outside the windows is a view that’s almost picture perfect. The mountain ranges that are capped with ice line the horizon in front of them. Where there should be green, is slowly turning white as they go further north, winter approaching faster than anticipated. It’s _almost_ picture perfect because the view moves around too fast. And Atsumu isn’t even paying attention to nature's artwork. He’s too busy staring at the one who stares out the window.

He takes out his phone from his pocket and then snaps a quick photo. Of the scenery.

Osamu and Rintarou are busy doing—he spares a glance and sees that the latter is busy feeding the former while he drives—whatever the fuck it is they’re doing. (Disgusting.)

Braving the tension in the backseat of this suddenly too-small car, Atsumu nudges him with his elbow. 

“Hey Omi.”

“What.”

“Are you seriously sulking over this?”

Kiyoomi sighs. “So what if I am?”

“I mean, it’s kinda funny seeing a twenty-seven year old grown man who is also going to be a professor _sulk_ over not being able to see Rihanna _seven_ years ago.”

Kiyoomi closes his eyes, letting out a deep breath as if trying to stop himself from strangling Atsumu right then and there.

“I can’t believe you got to see Rihanna when the only song you liked back then was _We Found Love._ ”

All Atsumu can do is laugh.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Kiyoomi told him that he doesn’t want to be dragged around in his pace anymore so that’s why Atsumu somehow ends up in the former’s bedroom. Kiyoomi is at his desk, scribbling something into his notebook and Atsumu sits beside him to watch, not really wanting to mess up the bed he knows the other made so carefully earlier in the morning. 

Kiyoomi mentioned something about entrance exams and how he has to study for them because he’s technically not an American despite living here for the past eight years. His family has always known that they’d leave after a while. Still, it’s interesting watching the boy pour through books whose language Atsumu should understand. But the writing and the meaning behind them is lost on Atsumu and all he can feel when he sees the way Kiyoomi writes, as if it’s second nature to him, is regret.

“Hey, Omi,” Atsumu starts.

“Hm?”

“How come you still remember Japanese well enough?” Atsumu read somewhere that people often forget language when not practiced. That and there’s thousands of kanji that Atsumu is sure Kiyoomi doesn’t actually read or write on a daily basis.

“My mom teaches it to me after school.” Okay, maybe he does. “She used to be a school teacher so I guess it’s natural that she wouldn’t want me to be left behind.”

‘Left behind’ is such a weird way to put it. Has Atsumu been left behind by a lack of cultural knowledge or was he the one who was adamant in his cultural neglect? Sometimes he would convince himself that it was no one’s fault. It was natural. This town is so filled with white people, there are barely any Asians in sight. His parents only ever spoke to him in English too, except for basic words and greetings. When they would visit his grandmother in Houston, she would speak Japanese to them and he wouldn’t be able to say much back.

Maybe it was his fault for never really wanting to find out and connect?

“Besides,” Kiyoomi continues. “I’m Japanese.”

Atsumu can’t help himself when he scoffs. It’s not like how he would usually banter with Kiyoomi. This time the sound of it is colder and dismissive. The other catches onto it pretty quickly because he sets his pen down, looks up from his textbook and turns his face towards Atsumu.

“What’s up?” he asks.

Atsumu feigns ignorance. “What do you mean, Omi?”

“You’re being weird.”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s not. If it was, you wouldn’t be acting like this.”

Atsumu sighs. “Do we have to do this right now? Just read your books.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at him. “You’re the one who brought it up. What’s the issue this time?” he asks like he’s not the one who’s high maintenance and complains about how everything wrong that happens is the universe trying to inconvenience him through aching joints and beads of sweat. “Come on, let’s talk.”

Atsumu stares at him; at the boy with the curly black hair and the two moles on the right side of his forehead. He stares at the boy in the black framed glasses and the lanky limbs. He doesn’t really want to talk, but the boy he stares at is only looking back at him with the same amount of intensity, a small pout on his lips and eyebrows that are furrowed. He looks worried and it’s a little unsettling.

“You’re lucky how sure of yourself you are.”

Kiyoomi’s face contorts into a funny expression, all lines and wrinkles and frowns. “I’m not—”

“Let me finish. Please.” The boy beside him shifts in his seat ever so slightly and nods, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Atsumu has a distracting thought about how he’d like to swipe his tongue against it before he shakes his head and continues. “You know, I feel a little lost most of the time. I’m not sure of myself at all even though I’m really good at faking it. I don’t know if this art thing will ever work out. I mean, my parents are worried about it even though they’re gonna support me anyway. And that’s not the only thing, like. It’s just. It’s just that I made that part of my identity because I didn’t want to acknowledge how crap I feel about the other thing.”

Kiyoomi frowns. “The other thing?”

“I’m not Japanese enough to be Japanese, and I’m not white enough to be American. I’m always lost somewhere in the middle. I’m always halfway.”

There’s silence between them for a few moments. Uncomfortable and heavy, something that weighs his chest like lead, something like being tied to an anchor and thrown into the ocean. And then, before he can suffocate, Kiyoomi speaks.

“I can understand that. Somewhat,” he says with a nod. “But I think you’re an idiot for thinking that everyone expects you to be a hundred percent of something. Even hand sanitizer doesn’t kill all the germs you know? Not ninety-nine point nine percent like the bottle claims because they multiply so fast. They’re always growing. That’s why you gotta wash your hands regularly, too.”

“What does this have anything to do with what I just said?”

Kiyoomi sighs like it’s supposed to be obvious. “What I’m trying to get at is that you’re not expected to go all the way. Sometimes you can go halfway and expect the other person to do just as much effort in return. Why do you have to accommodate everyone? Isn’t that what compromise is for? They should accommodate _you_ too.”

Atsumu stares at him.

“And why do you think you only have one facet? You’re Japanese-American _and_ you’re an artist, and both of those can be your identities. If you want, you can even say you’re just as much Japanese as you are American, which, by the way, you are. Add that to the list of your other facets like idiot, bad hair, and unfunny. God, you’re so stupid sometimes. It’s driving me nuts.”

All Atsumu can do is laugh. He can’t believe the gloomiest person he knows managed to cheer him up.

“You know what, Omi? You’re not half bad at consoling.”

“I wasn’t trying to, idiot.” But Atsumu knows that he’s lying. The smile on his lips is as clear as day. “Also, I can teach you, you know? Not right now though because I’m in the middle of this question but maybe later. Give me an hour?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Kiyoomi turns back to his book and starts to write again. And Atsumu, well, he just watches him. The curl of his hair, the slope of his nose, pout of his lips. He takes out his phone and snaps a quick picture. Maybe several.

“What are you doing?” Kiyoomi asks, zero inflection in his voice, definitely not peering up from his book.

“I need references, Omi. And you wouldn’t like it if I just stare at you for an hour,” he says before standing up and sitting on the far corner of the room. He sets his phone down beside him, takes out his sketchpad and a pencil, and finally, lets the nib meet paper.

  
  


“You’re serious about art, right?”

“Yeah, of course I am.”

“Then you have nothing to be worried about.”

“I want to open my own studio one day. I’m gonna be so famous, you’re gonna be grateful you know me, Omi.”

“I doubt that but I’d like to see it. Your art, I mean. You never show it to me.”

“Who knows? Maybe I’ll paint you one day.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


There aren’t many things that Atsumu considers sacred. He’s not like Kiyoomi, whose apartment visits require a full twenty-four notice and an agreement of showering beforehand to even set foot through the threshold, or how he always pertains to a ritual of wiping and cleaning every time they eat out together (which is now turning into a four-times-a-week basis). No, he doesn’t have many things that are sacred. But his personal art studio is definitely one of them. He has one where he holds classes and workshops but the one in the back room, secluded from the rest of the world is his own. That is _his_ in its entirety. That is his sanctuary.

He would joke that that’s ‘where all the magic happens’ and it’s not completely untrue but the sentiment is wildly different. His art isn’t the result of a miracle or a fluke, and it’s _definitely_ not magic. It’s the result of years of training, of familiarising himself with the careful movements and the once awkward hand placements. Now he paints like a man possessed, completely in tune with what he wants in his head and what appears on the blank canvas. 

Atsumu doesn’t really bring people to his studio that often, only Osamu is a regular visitor, but then again, that’s one of his twin privileges. 

So when Kiyoomi asks about it one day, a little over two months after he got back, while they’re on a call, Atsumu freezes.

“What?” he manages to ask after three seconds of silence (he did not count).

And it’s almost like he can _hear_ Kiyoomi rolling his eyes.

“I _said,_ when are you gonna stop being stingy and show me your studio. I know for a fact you’re not even busy right now because you said you’re taking a break from holding classes.”

“Damn, Omi. Are you that curious about me?”

“Stop deflecting, _asshole._ You barged into my office last week—mind you, I share that space with _several_ other people. Do you know how fucking embarrassing that was?”

For some reason, the thought of Kiyoomi sharing space with other people bothers him. It’s probably because that means that he has had to compromise somehow and reel everything back. Atsumu feels a twinge in his chest. He feels bad.

“I did not barge, I was _delivering food._ ”

“Tell Osamu the food was great.”

“Tell him yourself. I gave you his number,” Atsumu retorts.

Silence.

Atsumu tries to stifle a laugh. “He doesn’t hate you, you know.”

“Easy for you to say. Every time we bump into each other, he gives me a weird look.”

“He gives everyone a weird look.”

“You may be his twin with whom he fights with a lot but you will never be on the receiving end of his stink eye.”

“He’s just worried about me. You can’t ignore him. We come as a package.”

A dry laugh. “Hah. As if I can _ever_ ignore him regardless of that. I met up with Rin yesterday and Osamu was there too. When he saw me, he gave me a once over. I’m not saying I’m scared of him but I think he would be fully prepared to set fire on me and claim it was an accident.”

“Maybe he was checking you out?”

“You are truly disgusting.” Kiyoomi pauses. “And stop trying to deflect. Are we doing this or not?”

Atsumu sighs. It’s hard to admit defeat.

“Yeah. What day works for you?”

  
  


It’s a little bizarre, seeing Kiyoomi walk around the empty studio at sunrise on a Saturday. He eyes the easels, the unfinished paintings, the once-trash jars and old containers that eventually became storage for brushes and pencils, the red brick of the walls that are stark against the blank white canvases. There are sinks lined up in the corner of the room, cupboards filled with various supplies against the wall, drawing tables that fill the middle. The windows are open, both for light and ventilation. The chill of the outside air spreads around the room. He'll have to close the windows soon.

“So this is it, huh,” is what Kiyoomi says, muffled behind a mask.

“Well, this is where the magic happens.”

Kiyoomi scoffs. “Whatever that means.”

Still, he walks around the room and stops short at the sketches on the wall.

“Are any of these yours?” he asks.

Atsumu chuckles. “No, these are my students’. It was for critique.”

Kiyoomi turns to him and squints. “Where’s yours?”

Atsumu nods to the door that leads to the backroom. “That’s where I work on my stuff. And no, I’m not showing you that.”

It’s almost like he can see Kiyoomi pout through the mask. “You’re so stingy. What the fuck.”

“I won’t show it to you yet.” 

“Why not?”

“I’m not ready. One day, maybe.”

Kiyoomi sighs. “Okay, but you better.”

He continues to walk around, his eyes widen at certain artworks and he nods at others and then, he turns to Atsumu and looks straight at him.

“There’s one thing I don’t get though,” he says.

“And that is?”

“How come you never left Orono? I mean, this place isn’t exactly a cultural hub. I thought you’d want to go out there and get famous or something.”

Atsumu laughs. “I was in New York for a few years. But I came back home a couple of years ago to open this studio. I wanted to make my mark. I wanted to help the ones who feel a little lost about these things.”

“Hm,” Kiyoomi hums. His gaze shifts back to the art displays on the wall again. The critiques for his students. “You must be relieved.”

He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I am actually.”

“That’s good.” He nods again. “I’m glad.”

  
  


Osamu makes a face when Atsumu tells him he brought Kiyoomi to the studio.

“Are you guys, like, serious?” he asks.

“We’re not together.”

His brother frowns at him. “No, but… do you _want_ to be?” 

“Yeah. I think I do.” He bites his lip, embarrassed at his own admittance. Yes, he’s happy that he gets to spend so much time with Kiyoomi but he’s still worried about the prospect of it not being long term even if they’ll be in each other’s vicinity more now. “Is that bad?”

Osamu sighs. “Listen, you know how I feel about this. I just want you to be careful. He just got out of a relationship, didn’t he? I don’t want you to end up being the rebound, ‘Tsumu.”

He thinks back to a little over two months ago, to that conversation they had in the restaurant and the revelation that both of them were (and are) in fact, single. He makes a decision.

“It’s fine. I don’t want to rush things either.”

“As long as you're sure about this. I guess, I’ll have your back.”

Atsumu laughs. “Jeez, it’s not like I'm going off to war.”

The look on his brother’s face is grim. “Honestly? It felt like it back then.”

Osamu is exaggerating. Clearly. But Atsumu can’t help but feel some truth in the statement. It _was_ pretty bad.

“Don’t cry,” Kiyoomi had said to him at the airport when they were both eighteen years old with no real concept of the world beyond the small comforts of the familiar.

He didn’t cry. Not immediately. It took him a few months to finally cry. And it was the worst situation imaginable.

He was at the movies with Osamu. The movie in question was _Interstellar._ And he bawled his eyes out in a dark room filled with a bunch of other people. He didn’t cry for the plot, though that was sad too. Atsumu mostly cried because he thought he understood what Kiyoomi meant then. The fascination with space and time, and the way they bend and warp with no confines. He wondered if Kiyoomi watched the movie too.

He didn’t tell the boy about this on their calls. None of them.

Yes, the calls happened.

Atsumu did. Kiyoomi did. They did.

They called each other often and then it slowly dwindled towards the end. They weren’t dating. They were never dating. ‘Boyfriend’ was never a way they described each other, it was never a label they used. They were just friends. Friends who would kiss and then some during the one summer they had gotten to know each other before they both moved on with their lives.

And Atsumu tried hard to move on. He really did.

So one day, when he called Kiyoomi and said, “Omi, one of my roommates wants to set me up with someone. Is that okay?”

He should have expected the response of, “Why are you asking me? You can do whatever you want.”

They stopped calling after that.

  
  


Atsumu is lying in bed when he gets a text.

 **omi**  
Are you awake?

He texts back quickly.

 **me**  
yeh. why?

No response for a full minute before,

 **omi**  
Can I call you?

Not a minute after he tells Kiyoomi ‘yes’, his phone rings. He quickly answers it.

“What’s up?” He glances at the clock on the wall and frowns. It’s two AM. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

There’s some rustling on the other end, like Kiyoomi is shifting around in bed, and then the man speaks, slowly, tiredly, “I can’t sleep.”

Atsumu frowns. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I have insomnia. On most nights.”

He doesn’t remember that. The Kiyoomi in his memory would sleep by eleven PM every night.

“What can I do to help?” Atsumu asks.

Kiyoomi sighs. “Tell me about your day. Maybe I’ll get tired if you talk my ear off.”

Despite his worry, Atsumu chuckles. “Okay,” he says before going on a tangent about what he did today from the moment he woke up. He only gets to the part where he saw someone walk their dog during a short break he took in the later afternoon when he hears soft breaths in his ear.

“Omi?”

He doesn’t get a response.

Atsumu ends the call, and goes to sleep himself.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s seven AM when Kiyoomi hears the quiet clacks of rocks being thrown at his window. He knows exactly who the identity of Walmart-Romeo is. It doesn’t make him any less annoyed though. Trudging to the window, he groans when he sees familiar mustard blond hair. He pushes the glass open.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he whisper-yells.

“Hurry up and get ready. Let’s take a drive.”

“No.”

“Come on, Omi!” Atsumu whines, which is actually a sign that Kiyoomi will end up relenting. Fuck, he hates this.

Because he’s pissed at Atsumu, he takes his sweet time getting ready. He texts his parents a quick message about how he’ll be out with Atsumu today and then he heads downstairs. When he closes the front door and turns around, Atsumu has his arms crossed and is glowering at him, far too dramatic for him to be serious. As if to make it obvious that he’s annoyed, he starts tapping his foot on the ground. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes.

“Hi,” he says.

“Took you long enough.”

“Well, you see, I was woken up at ass o’clock by discount John Cusack. He didn’t hold a boombox though. Thank God. If he did, I would’ve had to listen to _Blurred Lines,_ which is already terrible under normal circumstance but worse if it was at fucking seven AM.”

“Since you just insulted my music taste, yet again, you don’t get the aux cord.”

Kiyoomi tilts his head. “Where are we going?”

“We’re going to the beach!”

He frowns. He doesn’t like the sound of it already. “I’m gonna hate it.”

“No, you won’t.”

“The sand will get everywhere and it’ll be gross!” he says through gritted teeth.

“What are you, _Anakin Skywalker?_ ” Atsumu huffs. “It won’t be that bad.”

Kiyoomi sighs. “Fine. Which one are we going to?”

At this, Atsumu turns away. “Uh, the one near Bar Harbour.”

Irritation doesn’t even begin to describe how he feels right at this instant. “Why the fuck are we going to Acadia for a beach?”

“It’s nice there,” Atsumu replies, far too meekly.

“It’s an hour and a half away!”

“That’s why I said it’s a _drive!_ ”

And that’s how Kiyoomi ends up in Atsumu’s car fifteen minutes later, a migraine brewing as something Atsumu calls ‘music’ blasts through the stereos. 

“I hate you so much right now. Why can’t _I_ control the music?” It probably sounds like he’s whining right now but at this point he doesn’t care, not when he’s being subjected to Atsumu’s awful playlist, one that the blond was so proud of when he hooked up his iPod to the car.

“It’s my car, babe.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.” Kiyoomi leans back on his seat, two fingers pressed on his temple as he closes his eyes. “If you’re going to play everything that’s ever been on the Top 40, you could _at least_ play some Rihanna.”

For some god forsaken reason, Atsumu decided that this mini road trip he forced upon them wouldn’t be complete without the worst song in history blaring through the car stereos.

_PARTY ROCK! YEAH! WOO! LET'S GO!_

_“Party rockers in the house tonight,”_ Atsumu sings, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

Kiyoomi swears he feels a vein pop. This is the last straw.

“It’s ‘party rock _is_ in the house tonight’, dumbass,” he hisses. 

Atsumu visibly freezes in his seat for a split second before a familiar smirk snakes its way to his lips. He glances to Kiyoomi’s side and suddenly, the curly haired boy has a bad feeling about all of this. 

Soon, the car slows down and Atsumu parks it on the side of the road. It's still too early for there to be cars, the road is deserted in front of them and behind them. They are the only two people there. The thought of the possibility of murdering Atsumu and never getting caught briefly dances through his head but then he finally lifts his eyes to look at the other. 

The sunlight that seeps through the windshield seems to backlight Atsumu, giving him a glow that almost makes him look calm and serene, the fire inside of him is well hidden apart from the burning look in his eyes. That burning look is for _him._ The realisation of it all unwittingly makes Kiyoomi feel a little shy, especially when Atsumu pulls up the handbrake just to start staring at him, a sure expression on his face.

“I wanna kiss you,” he says.

“What?” Kiyoomi quirks up an eyebrow, a little bewildered that it all somehow led to this.

“I said I wanna kiss you, Omi.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and leans into Kiyoomi’s space over the console. Slowly, Atsumu unhooks the mask on one of Kiyoomi’s ears, letting it dangle there, hot breath ghosts his chin as a hand traces his cheek. “Can I?” 

They're only an inch apart, a futile question to ask, but Kiyoomi answers anyway. He nods once and that is all it takes for Atsumu to press their lips together. They’ve kissed before but Kiyoomi doesn't think that he can ever get used to it; that warm feeling in his belly that would rise to his neck and face. He knows that he’s blushing by now but he can’t help it. And when Atsumu pulls away with that _stupid_ smirk on his face he knows that he's been compromised.

“That was so hot,” Atsumu grins. This is Atsumu—eighteen-year-old, mustard-haired, Atsumu—and Kiyoomi feels something in his stomach stir. It’s quiet but ever present. He kind of hates it, actually.

Kiyoomi frowns. “I really don’t understand what constitutes ‘hot’ for you.”

“You do.”

He snorts and then pushes the other away. “Ew,” he says without any bite.

At the beach, Atsumu makes a move to run towards the water, only being stopped in his tracks when Kiyoomi grips on the hood of his wind breaker tightly. 

“What the hell, Omi?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “What are you, a kid?”

“Well, I think eighteen barely counts as an adult.”

He hates to admit it but Atsumu makes sense. So he won’t admit it.

They walk around the beach, Atsumu has a camera around his neck and an arm around Kiyoomi's shoulder. He holds him close. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t really mind it at first, but the Grinch in his head is trying to steal away this happy moment because now all Kiyoomi can think about is the sand. Sand that gets between toes, that sticks to clothing and skin. Sand that constantly moves and shifts, surrounded by germs and surrounds them as well.

Fuck. 

He might really hate this.

“Atsumu,” he says quietly. “I don’t know if I like this.”

The arm on his shoulder loosens and falls to the other's side. He somehow misses the weight of it now.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t stop thinking about the sand. It feels so… dirty. It makes me feel gross.”

Atsumu nods. “How about we think about the sea?” He shifts their bodies so that both of them are facing the water. “Listen to that, Omi. Smell it, too.”

Kiyoomi stares ahead at the water that pushes and pulls. The sound of it reaching the shore is loud enough to drown out the noise in his head. The smell of the sea distracts him enough so that he doesn’t think about the sand that’s stuck in his shoes. The wind blows and he’s sure his curls look wild right now. He’s sure that—

_Click._

He turns to his side, only to meet a wide grin.

“Whoops! Sorry, Omi. I need a reference.”

Kiyoomi frowns. “What’s all this about, Atsumu?”

Uncharacteristically, Atsumu looks shy. “Well, you’re leaving tomorrow. And I want you to remember this moment. Sorry though, I didn’t know you hate beaches so much.”

Quietly, Kiyoomi admits, “This is my first time going to the beach actually. Like, ever.”

At this confession, Atsumu gawks at him. “But you were complaining so much in the morning! I thought you hated it.”

“I do. Kind of.”

“Wait,” Atsumu starts as if a second realisation hits him. “The first time you ever go to the beach is with _me?_ ” 

Kiyoomi feels his ears burn but he shrugs. “I’ve had a lot of my first times with you.”

It’s silent for a few beats before the boy beside him speaks up again.

“Is this a good first time?”

Kiyoomi thinks about it for a moment. He weighs the pros and cons of this particular excursion in his head. He thinks about the sand at his feet and the horizon that’s just beyond arm’s length.

“Yeah. This is good.” He nods. “Thank you, Atsumu.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s raining in Tokyo again.

It rained in Tokyo yesterday as well.

It always rains in Tokyo. The monsoon seems never-ending.

Another beach plan thwarted.

His mother called him earlier in the day and asked Kiyoomi if he’s coming back home this weekend. He told her that he’s not because he’s busy with his thesis and work.

It’s been years since he came back to Tokyo, his home, the place where he was born and the place of his early childhood, but somehow, he feels lonely sometimes. He shouldn’t be. He has Motoya to hang out with when he’s bored, he has a boyfriend of three years who loves him, he’s made a life here and he should feel happy.

Kiyoomi hears the front door click, open and then close again. He stands up from the couch and goes to the kitchen to boil some water.

“I’m back,” he hears.

“Welcome back,” he calls back in return.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the man walk into their bedroom to drop his things there.

He sets the two mugs of tea on the breakfast table and the other joins him soon hereafter.

“I saw your match, Wakatoshi-kun,” he says before taking a sip. “It was good.”

“Thank you.”

Wakatoshi hasn’t been home for a while. Being a professional athlete, he has to travel a lot. Kiyoomi has always felt a little lonely in Tokyo, but he has never felt lonely because Wakatoshi isn’t here.

“This is good, Kiyoomi-kun,” Wakatoshi says, lowering his mug.

Kiyoomi smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

If Wakatoshi notices, he doesn’t say a word.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s midwinter now, cold and hard December that is made evident with the puffs of condensation that mystify Atsumu’s mouth. Kiyoomi stares at him, his own face half covered with a mask. A brief thought of warming Atsumu up with his lips chances his brain before he throws it out the metaphorical window of his mind. No. He just wishes that he can buy Atsumu a scarf so that the other can keep warm.

When Kiyoomi asks if he feels cold, Atsumu only laughs and tells him that it’s okay, because he’s always ran hot.

Kiyoomi doesn’t buy it. Not one bit. Not when he sees the way Atsumu’s ears are dusted pink in the white backdrop of their surroundings. Atsumu’s pink ears and red face are the only colours on this particular canvas. Kiyoomi smiles, knowing full well that the other can’t see him.

It was funny when Atsumu called him last week, telling him quite frantically that there’s a new _Star Wars_ movie out so does he want to see it?

Naturally, Kiyoomi says yes, even if he ends up complaining about every single thing that happened in the movie. Which, he does.

“I gotta tell you, Omi,” Atsumu says once they leave the movie theatre. “You didn’t really strike me as one of those dudebros who liked Star Wars. Even though I knew about it.”

Kiyoomi frowns, his eyebrows scrunched up together. “Do not call me a ‘dudebro’ if you value your life.”

“Oh? Look at you threatening people’s lives over a movie series. Do this on the internet and you’ll be exactly what I’m talking about.”

Why does Atsumu act like Kiyoomi has no idea what Twitter is? He’s well aware of how fans act online. He shivers at the thought of being associated with them.

“I didn’t think you’d even like this new one, though.” The walk to Atsumu’s car shouldn’t be this long, and yet it feels like hours have passed since they left the hall.

“Hm? Why not?”

“Didn’t everyone hate the last trilogy? Something about bringing Ben Solo back.”

Despite himself, Kiyoomi laughs. Wholeheartedly. 

Still chuckling, Kiyoomi manages to say, “Oh yeah. There was pretty much a consensus that the ending for the trilogy was just… bad. I hated it too but not for those reasons.”

“What was your reasoning?”

“For one thing, Finn and Poe not being together was a hate crime against me specifically.”

When they get to Atsumu’s car and he eventually slides into the passenger’s seat, another typical annoyance occurs: his glasses fog up. If it weren’t for the fact that he would be blind without them, he would never wear them. Sure, he could get contacts, but the idea of putting something directly on his eyes has never sat well with him. He gets freaked out by it every time he sees other people wear contacts. Sighing, he takes them off and wipes it with his microfiber cleaner.

He takes off his mask before sliding them back on his nose, he watches Atsumu turn the ignition on and put the gears into shift before they finally leave the parking lot.

He remembers this bit too; sitting silently as Atsumu drives, bad music blasting through the car stereos. It’s shuffling his liked songs on _Spotify._ It’s terrible, really. But Kiyoomi leans back on his seat and closes his eyes. The heater in the car does wonders in bringing back the feeling in his fingers.

“Can I walk you back?” is what he hears when the car pulls to a stop. Kiyoomi turns to him, there is no more barrier that hides his face and Atsumu is looking at him directly, unsure and nervous.

“Sure.”

They walk quietly towards the faculty residence. He’s planning on moving to an apartment after the semester. He’s been looking up some places recently but the thought of having to pack his things into boxes again is making him take his time. Kiyoomi doesn’t lead him beyond the front door of the building. Luckily for him, it’s winter break and most people have left campus. It’s like they’re the only two people here.

He tugs at the loose end of his scarf, tightening it around his neck.

“Well, this was fun,” he says into the night. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

He turns around to leave but a hand grabs hold of his shoulder and suddenly he’s face to face with Atsumu again. His face is red, and his breathing is a little heavy. It must be due to the cold. Because Kiyoomi feels it too. He feels it when Atsumu places his hands on Kiyoomi’s arms. He feels his chest tighten, like the way his ribs constrict up and out when he takes a deep breath. They never relax. 

Atsumu’s eyes are boring into him. Warm like a hearth but filled with the same intensity of a thousand suns. He inches closer to Kiyoomi, slowly, as if giving him the option to run away. This feels all too familiar, but Kiyoomi can’t help the dread that falls into the pit of his stomach like mentos in a bottle of Coke. The acid that rises up his body feels so painful, corroding every single thing that would keep Kiyoomi alive.

Hypothesis: the man in front of him is a threat to his being.

“Atsumu,” he whispers, turning his head away in the last second. He closes his eyes, not wanting to spare a look at the other because he knows that if he does, it will all be over. If he looks at Atsumu, this will all lead to another heartbreak. Suddenly, they’re two unsure and awkward teenagers again. They know nothing of the world. “Don’t mess around.”

Prediction: he expects Atsumu to step back and tell him that he’s right.

But he doesn’t.

Atsumu stays there, the grip he has on Kiyoom's arms is tighter than before.

“Okay, then. What if I’m serious?” is what he hears and Kiyoomi’s head snaps back towards him.

He watches Atsumu for anything—a hitch of a breath, a bead of sweat, a nervous look— _anything_ that would indicate that he’s lying. But Kiyoomi doesn’t find anything like that. Where Atsumu looked unsure before, there’s renewed determination and vigor in his eyes and it makes Kiyoomi’s heart skip a beat. Or twenty.

He needs to draw a conclusion from his findings now.

The hypothesis has an answer.

Atsumu leans in again and Kiyoomi closes his eyes. He waits for the soft pressure of lips but he never gets it.

Atsumu sighs as he pulls away. “Sorry, I… I’m just afraid I’ll make you uncomfortable. And then you’d leave and—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Kiyoomi swoops down and kisses him firmly on the mouth. He lets his arms wrap around Atsumu’s neck. He holds him close, so close that he can feel the other’s heartbeat hammering against his own. That dread in his stomach subsides but there are sirens in his head. He braves those sirens, and the warnings that come with it. He walks into the flashing lights of red and blue with his hands in the air. The man in front of him is a threat to his being.

“I don’t mind it if you kiss me for real. If I was uncomfortable, I would tell you,” he whispers, their faces inches apart as his hands cup Atsumu’s cheeks. “If you mean it, don’t say you’re sorry. It makes me sad.”

Atsumu nods before resting his head on the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck, a hand slides down to gently clasp his fingers. “I missed you so much, Omi.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

  
  


“By the way, Omi. Next week, the guys are planning on meeting up.”

“The guys?”

“Yeah! Me, ‘Samu, Rin and some of the others from high school. It’s rare that we’re all in town. So, we might as well.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Do you want to come?”

“Sure.”

  
  


In his dream, Kiyoomi is sitting in the dark. There is a clock ticking in the corner of the room and snow falls outside.

He hears a voice ask him, “Are you in love with me?”

He can’t answer the simple question. Not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he does.

In his dream, Kiyoomi says, “I don’t know.”

  
  


Kiyoomi opens his eyes. He must have dozed off after his shower. The light on his phone tells him that it’s only nine PM.

It’s midwinter but he feels warm all over. He can still feel Atsumu's lips against his in soft pressure. Familiar. All too familiar.

There's a constant buzz in his head, one that he akins to white noise. Something that he’s grown accustomed to ignore. It’s something that he once deemed before as worth ignoring, worth defying. He remembers how liberating it felt when he did.

But then he thinks about the crash from the high. When they were separated by more than distance, when they were no longer speaking the same language, when time felt like a fiction.

He thinks back to those calls they made back when he first moved back to Japan, how they were all scheduled and how they stopped following it. Once every three days became once a week, once a week became once a month, once a month became once every two months. And then the culmination of it all, in month six of whatever it was they were holding onto, the taut thread snapped. It sliced him across the heart and he bled.

Now, he’s grateful that Atsumu picks up his calls.

He’s grateful that Atsumu can kiss him again.

He’s grateful that when he closes his eyes again, his dreams are of nothing at all.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Atsumu has never really been much for celebration. Christmas is just a day off to him. Still, he doesn’t mind using the occasion to meet up with old friends. So that’s why he’s here at the moment, waiting in his car outside of Kiyoomi’s. He wonders where it is that they’re going with this. Kiyoomi told him that as long as Atsumu means it, he doesn’t mind whatever they do together. For the most part it’s reassuring.

But he’s still scared. Somewhat. The Kiyoomi of the past was okay with what they did too.

_That was nine years ago, dumbass._

He hears a tap on his window and looks up to see that it’s the man in question. Quickly, he unlocks the door. Kiyoomi does his little ritual before he eventually slides in.

Atsumu can’t help but stare at him. Kiyoomi’s hair looks tamed usually, already different from how he was as a teenager but tonight, it’s _styled._ Even his outfit looks like he made a little more effort into it. He remembers the neons and the blacks Kiyoomi would always wear when they were younger but now he’s wearing a white button up and a beige coat. A red scarf is wrapped snugly around his neck.

“Would you quit staring at me?” Kiyoomi says, lowering his mask.

“Can’t help it,” Atsumu mumbles. _I can’t believe you’re real,_ he doesn’t say.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and then he leans in over the console. Soon, Atsumu feels a pair of lips softly press against his cheek.

“Hi,” Kiyoomi says when he pulls away. His eyes shift downwards. Kiyoomi is _shy._

He places a hand on Kiyoomi’s neck and then gives him a real kiss. Slower and longer than necessary. When they break apart, Atsumu grins.

“Hi.”

Kiyoomi sighs. “Why do you always have to one up me.” It should be a question, but Kiyoomi doesn’t say it as such. It makes Atsumu laugh.

Then, he drives.

It doesn’t take long. He’s sure it lasted about fifteen minutes but then he’s already parking the car and they walk into the restaurant together. Spotting the others is easy. It’s just the loudest group in the corner of the establishment. Beside him, he can feel Kiyoomi tense a little.

“Hey Omi?”

“Yeah?”

“It’ll be fine.”

It’s loud. So loud. And Atsumu is having the time of his life. He’s surrounded by friends and Kiyoomi is sitting right beside him. He doesn’t drink because he has to drive, but he still feels on cloud nine. Everything about this feels so natural.

The others—minus his brother and his brother’s boyfriend—were surprised when they saw Kiyoomi walk into the room. Atsumu knows that they were never that close in high school but somehow, Kiyoomi manages to integrate himself into this group as if they have always been friends.

“Hey, Sakusa!” someone calls.

“Yeah?” Kiyoomi says after taking a sip of his drink. He hisses a little. It must be quite strong.

“What did you do after high school? You just up and left. I was so surprised when my mom said you just moved back.”

“I was just in Tokyo. Studying and working.” 

Atsumu snorts. That’s such a Kiyoomi type of answer.

“You know I heard this crazy rumour,” another pipes up.

Kiyoomi quirks up an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“You know how we went straight to volleyball after high school right? Professionally.”

Something shifts in Kiyoomi’s face. But it quickly passes because his blank expression is back. Across the table, Atsumu catches the way Osamu and Rintarou stare at this whole ordeal with squinted eyes. Suddenly, a twinge of worry makes its way to his chest. What the fuck is happening?

“Ah,” Kiyoomi says in acknowledgement.

“So it’s true?”

 _What’s true?_ Atsumu wants to ask.

“Sorry?” Kiyoomi says.

“You and that guy! Ushijima. His team comes to play with clubs in America sometimes. He told us that he was dating a guy who lived here. In fucking Orono,” he laughs. “We heard a rumour that you were gonna get married.”

“Ah, no. We broke up.”

There’s a screeching of car tyres somewhere. Far too loud to be from anywhere but his mind. It’s shrill and suddenly Atsumu remembers the past few months.

_It’s nuts that you moved back! Not that nuts._

_I recently got out of a relationship._

_I don’t want you to end up being the rebound, ‘Tsumu._

He stands up. The table clatters. A hand grips his sleeve and asks him where he’s going. He takes it off of him.

“I need some air,” he says before heading out the door.

He doesn’t come back in.

He goes home.

  
  


Kiyoomi called him non stop for the first day. But then he stops completely. Instead he gets a text that says ‘let’s talk when you cool off’.

It’s been three days.

He hasn’t left his apartment since.

  
  


He wonders if there was ever a prospect to starting this again. It’s stupid. It didn’t work out back then. Why should it work out now?

“You’re a moron, ‘Tsumu,” his brother says. He must have said it out loud.

Atsumu sighs. “I know. You warned me.”

“That’s not what I was talking about but okay.”

He sits up from where he had been lying down on the couch. This isn’t his apartment. Ah, that’s right. He was dragged here yesterday because Osamu wanted to make sure that he eats.

“What _are_ you talking about then?” he asks, dragging his knees to his chest. This sucks.

“You just asked why would it work out now when it didn’t back then. Are you a fucking idiot? Kiyoomi is _here_ now. It’s not like he’s oceans away anymore. He lives not twenty minutes away.”

“Oh, so now you’re supporting it?”

Osamu sighs. “No. Now I’m not against it. There’s a difference. I haven’t been against it in weeks.”

Atsumu lies back down in a slump. “I wish you were. It’d be more fun to fight with you then to listen to you giving me advice.” He pauses. “You knew about it, didn’t you?”

“Him and that volleyball hotshot? Yeah. Rin told me,” Osamu says. “He also told me that they were long overdue for a breakup anyway.”

“How does Rin even know so much?”

Osamu shrugs. “Can you _please_ talk to him now? You look miserable and he’s been texting me for days asking if you’re okay. It’s driving me crazy.”

  
  


What happens is that they decide to meet at some cafe that’s apparently a fifteen minute walk from Kiyoomi’s apartment. Atsumu would rather be in public. He knows that he won’t lose his cool if people are around them.

When he arrives, Kiyoomi is already there, maskless. Atsumu knows that the mask is probably already in a ziploc. There are two drinks on the table.

He slides into the chair without a second thought. “Sorry, I’m late.”

Kiyoomi looks up from his phone and there’s a weird expression on his face. His eyebrows are furrowed, his mouth in a straight line. His lips are red and chapped like he’s been biting them but it could just be the weather.

“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” Kiyoomi says.

It’s awkward, terribly so. It hasn’t been this awkward between them in a very long time. They don’t say anything for a few minutes, the weight of the topic acts as a muffler for their words. He hates this. He hates how it’s come to this.

“How have you been?” Kiyoomi asks.

Atsumu gives him a look. “I’ve been better.”

“Right. That was a stupid question to ask.” He looks down. “What the hell was all of that? Back then?”

“What are you talking about?”

He sees the way Kiyoomi’s fists clench on the table, tighter until his knuckles turn white. “Why did you leave?” He raises his eyes now. Their gazes lock. “You just left me there. It felt so shitty.”

What Atsumu shouldn’t do is laugh, but he barks out a laugh anyway. It’s cold and bitter. Foreign on his tongue. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about Ushijima?”

“I told you when we met again that I had gotten out of a relationship. I _did_ tell you.”

“You didn’t tell me it was that serious!” He feels his anger rising in him like bile. Hot and disgusting. It rises from his stomach in hot flashes.

“It wasn’t relevant—”

“—Wasn’t relevant? Omi, you were going to marry the guy.”

“I wasn’t!” Kiyoomi doesn’t really raise his voice often, but he does now. When eyes shift to them, he looks a little panicked. Atsumu feels an urge to reassure him but he doesn’t.

Something else comes out instead. The bile from before is at the back of his throat now. It threatens to come out thick and hot, a venom of insecurity that almost brings him to tears.

“Am I just your rebound? Is that what this is?”

“What?”

“You come running across oceans after breaking up with some guy and then meet me again. And you acted so friendly and nice and like you wanted to be with me. What am I to you?”

Kiyoomi stares at him. Even through his glasses, his eyes look a little wet. “How could you say that?”

“You know what? Don’t answer,” Atsumu says, the anger in his voice doesn’t cool down. “I’m leaving.”

And he does.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Kiyoomi recalls that day from the beginning of the year.

He was still twenty-six years old and he was eating dinner with his boyfriend. It was snowing outside, the window was the only barrier between them and the harsh winter. They ate in silence. The enthusiasm they had in the beginning of their relationship had long since withered.

Wakatoshi broke the silence first. “My parents asked me when we plan to wed.”

Kiyoomi looked up from his plate. Wakatoshi was watching him, the warmth in his eyes diminished.

“My parents are getting impatient too,” he said.

“Then we have to talk about it.” Wakatoshi set his chopsticks down and placed his hands flat on the table.

Kiyoomi was embarrassed. He knew what was about to happen. They both did.

“Kiyoomi-kun, why did you want to date me?” Wakatoshi asked.

“Because I liked you. I liked you a lot.” He did. He was enamoured by this man the first time they met. He wanted to try that time, but his efforts were for nothing.

Wakatoshi nodded. “Yes, I think so too. I liked you a lot as well.” A clock ticks in the corner of the room and yet time seems to slow down. “Do you love me?”

“Yes, of course I do.” He did.

“Are you in love with me?”

This was what he was dreading. They both knew the answer to this question. But Kiyoomi still couldn’t say it out loud, so he settled on, “I don’t know.” He paused. “Are _you_ in love with me?”

Wakatoshi shook his head. “No.”

  
  


One of Newton’s laws of motion dictates that a body will remain in a straight line, unless an external force acts on it.

It’s one of those laws you learn as a child and try to understand it later before your teacher gives you a quiz on it. And then you regurgitate what you learned and forget about it soon after. Kiyoomi has never really forgotten about it. He knows exactly what it means.

But recently, he did forget. Until an external force acted on him and quite publicly asked him, _What am I to you?_

Kiyoomi had a lot of answers for that one, but he couldn’t say a word at the time. But he’s tired now. He’s tired of going along with anything. He’s tired of moving in a straight line.

He has to try. He has to put in the effort if he wants to change.

Kiyoomi grabs his coat, puts on his mask and glasses before the door slams behind him and he’s desperately trying to call an Uber.

The car ride seems to go on forever and then suddenly, he’s in front of Atsumu’s door.

He knocks.

There is no answer and dread fills him. How could he have been so stupid? Atsumu was at Osamu’s place these past few days. Why did he rush here? He should have texted Osamu to make sure. He should have—

The door opens and Atsumu is looking at him with a surprised look on his face. It quickly disappears though, because it shifts into something colder.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. And Kiyoomi hates that expression. It doesn’t suit Atsumu.

“We couldn’t finish our talk,” Kiyoomi replies simply. “Can I come in?”

Atsumu looks like he doesn’t want to and for a brief moment, Kiyoomi thinks he’s about to slam the door in his face but then, Atsumu steps aside and lets him walk in.

He takes off his mask then, putting it inside the pocket of his coat before he hangs it by the door. He makes his way to the living room, he doesn’t sit down on the couch. He tries not to think about the state of the room and how sirens are going off in his brain. _Shut up,_ he says in his head.

“Would you like some tea?” Atsumu asks, it’s void of any emotion and it’s so strange to hear that it’s directed towards _him._

This feels so wrong.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I just want to talk, if you’ll listen. If you still hate me after that, then I’ll leave and we don’t have to talk anymore.”

Atsumu walks into the room after him and Kiyoomi takes a deep breath.

“First things first, I was never going to marry him. I never wanted to marry him. We loved each other but not like that, it took us a while to admit it. Plus, he’s dating someone else now and they sent me a greeting card last week. It was pretty hilarious.” At this he finds himself chuckling and he sees that the hard lines of Atsumu’s face has softened. “You know, he travelled a lot and was never in the country for the most part. I never felt lonely because of that. But when you left the get-together, I felt lonely. When you didn’t answer my calls or texts, I felt lonely. When you look at me like you don’t want to have anything to do with me, I feel so lonely. So please, don’t look at me like that anymore.”

It’s getting a little hard to breathe now. But he has to say these words or he won’t change.

“If you leave without saying a word, I’ll get scared.”

And then,

“That’s how I felt,” Atsumu finally says. “Back then. But you didn’t leave without saying a word and somehow that felt worse.”

“Did we try?” he finds himself asking.

Atsumu nods, his eyes stay down. “We did but I think it was inevitable. It wasn’t the right time.”

At this, Kiyoomi’s ears perk up. “When will the right time be?”

“I don’t know. I thought I knew,” Atsumu says, a little exasperated now. “I feel like I can never reach you. It’s always like I’m coming up halfway.”

“Then I’ll meet you there.”

The other man finally looks at him. “What?”

“I’ll meet you halfway.”

They’re quiet again. And Kiyoomi can’t stand it anymore.

“You know I—I never looked at either of you as replacements. You’re two different people that I feel for differently. I have never compared you. So please, don’t worry about that.”

“I—”

“Wait, let me finish. Please,” he says, the desperation leaking into his voice. “I don’t know where this is going to go. Obviously, I can’t predict the future but I know what it is that I want. And I want you, more than the you of the past, I want the you right now. Standing in front of me with that dumb look on your face. I want to be serious this time, I’m tired of us dancing around each other and pretending that this is all just friendship because we both know it’s not. I _want_ a label. I don’t want us to sneak around like we’re two teenagers that are doing something wrong. I think we have a lot to work on but I want this.”

At the end of his entire spiel, Kiyoomi huffs out a breath. And then,

“Now I want to ask you this: what do _you_ want?”

Atsumu stares at him, long and hard, his mouth in a line. Slowly, his eyes graze down his face, from his moles to his nose, to his lips and then Kiyoomi sees the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Taking a step forward into Kiyoomi’s space, Atsumu says, “Right now, I wanna kiss you, Omi.” 

He doesn’t waver either. “Then kiss me.”

Their kiss feels like a promise, like the years spent apart means nothing when they know that this is how they’ll be from now on. Together. It’s desperate, the kind of kiss that has Kiyoomi gasping for air because kissing Atsumu is the only way he won’t drown. This is the only breath of life he’s ever known.

Clothes start to get peeled off one by one as they stumble into Atsumu’s bedroom. He falls backwards onto the bed, not even thinking about whether or not Atsumu had cleaned the sheets recently. His mind doesn’t buzz with thoughts about how this is wrong because he’s never felt more right. All he can think about is Atsumu’s eyes that look at him like he’s the only other person in existence, Atsumu’s lips that move against his own, slotted perfectly like they were meant to be there, Atsumu’s hands that dance over his skin, burning down walls with each touch.

_Atsumu. Atsumu. Atsumu._

“Kiyoomi,” the man mumbles, his lips in his hair. “You have a tattoo?”

“Mm? Yeah, I do.”

He can feel Atsumu’s fingertips brush his left rib where the blue waves are inked on his skin like paint on a white canvas. He feels so seen but weirdly enough, he doesn’t mind.

“When did you get it?” A gentle suck on his neck draws out a sharp breath.

There’s a weight in his chest, the waves on his ribs like the water in his lungs. His mind is elsewhere. Atsumu. “It was my second year of university. Felt like doing something impulsive,” he manages to answer, fingers threading through the other’s bleached blond hair.

Atsumu pulls back and smiles. “You really changed.” Then he leans in and kisses Kiyoomi again. This time it’s slow, languid, like they have all the time in the world—no more rushing like they did when they were teenagers with a deadline somewhere beyond the horizon. In the secrecy of night, this is _theirs_ to take apart however they want. Atsumu is his to hold and he is Atsumu’s to unravel. And he lets him do just that, he lets Atsumu’s tongue enter his mouth when he feels it swipe against his lips. Spearmint toothpaste. It feels so good, so right.

None of this is wrong, not Atsumu kissing him in a room he’s not even sure is clean, not Atsumu settling between his legs and entering his body as his back arches off the bed, not Atsumu leaning his sweaty forehead, hair matted against it, over his own, whispering ‘I missed you so much’, ‘you feel so good’, ‘you’re so beautiful, Kiyoomi’, like a man possessed.

Kiyoomi finds himself crying but he knows that this time, the ache of his heart and the buzz in his head is comforting.

This feels right.

The last thought that he remembers is the name that he gasps and whispers throughout the night.

_Atsumu._

  
  


When Kiyoomi wakes up naked and decidedly not in his bed or in his home for that matter, amber eyes are on him. The frequent buzzing in his head is silent and has been since the night before.

“What time is it?” Kiyoomi asks, throat a little drier than he initially anticipated. He squints, looking around the room and remembering that _ah,_ he decided to spend the night here. He pulls the blanket over his shoulders. Kiyoomi has always been a little weak to the cold.

“Just after six thirty.” Atsumu pauses, and then his eyebrows crease. “Is your body okay?” There’s worry laced in his voice and it forces Kiyoomi to suppress a smile.

“Hm? Just a little sore.”

“Sorry,” Atsumu whispers.

“It’s okay. I’m not delicate.”

A hand combs through his hair and Kiyoomi finds himself closing his eyes again. This would be nice if it weren’t for the one glaringly obvious annoyance.

“It’s way too fucking early,” he mumbles only for Atsumu to laugh at him, a little breathily, eyes crinkled in amusement.

“You’re such a baby in the morning, not delicate _my ass._ You should go back to sleep,” the blond man says, voice low.

“Maybe I will.” He’s definitely not pouting. Kiyoomi leans in closer to the other, burying his head in the crook of Atsumu’s neck. “You’re warm,” he says flatly, an observation of sorts.

He gets a soft hum and an arm that wraps around him in response.

  
  


A while later, Kiyoomi is moving the last of his boxes into his new apartment. He toes the door open and walks into this new place he’ll call home. He hears the click of the door behind him and walks into the living room, setting the box down on the coffee table.

Atsumu is already here, already helping to unpack his things. He had just emptied out the box labeled ‘kitchen things’.

He takes a blade himself, opening up the box he just carried in until he hears,

“Uh, Omi?”

“Hm?”

“What’s this?”

He turns around and sees what Atsumu is referring to. The man is holding a stack of photos that’s tied together with a red string.

Ah. It’s that one.

“Not just these,” Atsumu continues, his eyes as wide as saucers as he nods towards the entire box he had just opened.

Kiyoomi stands up and walks up to him, inspecting the box Atsumu seems to be horrified by. Besides the polaroid and the photostrip, the box contains other things like a keychain Atsumu got him from a vending machine, a fox plushie, a jacket that eighteen year old Atsumu claimed was stolen by a gremlin. Neither of them can fit in it now.

He chuckles. “What?”

Atsumu still stares at him, incredulous. “You _kept_ all of these?”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “Of course I did. They’re important to me,” he says flatly.

Somehow, Atsumu manages to get redder. “Omi, can we unpack the bed things first?”

He laughs but agrees to it nonetheless.

  
  


“Say, Omi. How come you came here to teach? You could have taught in Japan.”

“Is that your way of telling me to fuck off?”

Atsumu sighs. “No. God, why are you so dramatic?”

“It takes one to know one,” he quips back.

“Are you ever gonna answer my question?”

Kiyoomi sets his pen down. He might as well take a break from marking all these papers. The words were starting to blur all into one anyway. He leans back on his chair and thinks about Atsumu’s question.

He’s never really thought about it deeply before. If anyone else asked him, he would have just said that he felt like it. But Atsumu would never be satisfied with that kind of answer. So instead, he says, “It never really felt like home there.”

  
  


They’re pretending to watch Netflix right now. It’s a really bad show and Kiyoomi has zoned out two hours ago. He’s been focussing on the way Atsumu curls up against his body and rests his head on his shoulder.

“This show is really bad,” Kiyoomi mutters.

“Yeah, it sucks.”

“Want me to turn it off?”

“No.”

Instead, Atsumu somehow manages to press closer to him. Kiyoomi isn’t a warm person so he doesn’t understand what it is that Atsumu’s chasing. So he asks him.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m making sure you’re not a hallucination.”

Kiyoomi frowns. “Why would I be a hallucination?”

He feels the body beside him sigh. “For the longest time, I thought you were. I thought I was going crazy when I saw you at the exhibition. I’m so happy you’re actually here. Tangible.”

There’s an ache in his chest, one that Kiyoomi can’t bear to ignore anymore. The seeds were planted so long ago, it’s been exposed to rain and sunlight, it’s braved the summers and the winters, and now it’s finally ready to bloom.

He says those words, easy on his tongue, as if he was always meant to say them.

“I love you, Atsumu,” he whispers. “I’ve loved you for ten years and I’ll love you for tens to come.”

For all the loudness and practiced arrogance, Atsumu is quiet when he cries. All he does is turn his head so his face is right in Kiyoomi’s chest, and cries. He cries and tells him that he loves him too.

And Kiyoomi, no longer the boy who was afraid of a touch, wraps his arms around him.

  
  


“I’m nervous, Omi.” Atsumu grips his hand tight. So tight, that Kiyoomi can feel the sweat start to form. There is buzzing in his head but he forces himself to ignore it. He’s used to it by now.

“What are you so worried about? You've been working hard on it for months,” Kiyoomi says, trying his best to reassure him. He’s right though. He thinks back to the last few months where he had to remind Atsumu to eat and tell him off when he calls him at night only to find out that he’s still at the studio. It was driving him crazy. Osamu told him that that's how Atsumu gets when he has an exhibition coming up and that he's glad someone is actually there making sure he's not dead.

“Yeah but what if they hate it?” Atsumu is going to ramble soon.

Kiyoomi squeezes his hand before pecking him on the lips. “You’ll do great.”

When they finally head inside, it’s already bustling with so many people. He has to brave this. For Atsumu.

Kiyoomi takes a deep breath and lets himself get dragged around the gallery.

Atsumu stops sometimes to talk to people but he doesn't immediately head to his own artwork. Kiyoomi is getting curious now, maybe a little antsy. Every time Kiyoomi picked Atsumu up from his studio, the man would always shut the door behind him quickly and not let Kiyoomi see whatever it is he was working on.

Atsumu lifts their hands and plants a kiss on Kiyoomi's knuckles. “Hey Omi, let’s go to my side, yeah?”

He feels warm in the face and knows that he's been compromised again but he nods anyway.

Atsumu leads him somewhere deeper within the sea of people. They meander until Atsumu pulls to a stop and all Kiyoomi can do is stare.

It’s him.

As in, Sakusa Kiyoomi.

His face is on the wall of this exhibition, large and somewhat subdued. The expression is one he never knew he was capable of emoting. His eyes are calm, serene, but there’s a light in them. A spark. His hair cascades down his face in tamed curls, black and inky against pale skin. There’s a small smile on his lips. Atsumu painted him carefully, with perfected detail as if to prove his devotion.

Kiyoomi feels stripped bare, like Atsumu peered into his soul and then pressed the brush to canvas. And he finds himself not minding being so seen, as long as there is one particular pair of eyes that look at him.

If Kiyoomi didn’t burn before, he burns now. Because the painting is so obvious. The him in the portrait looks so in love. This is what he looks like to the man he loves, to the man who loves him.

Kiyoomi is sure that he’s going to die now.

“Do you like it, Omi?” Atsumu asks, voice a little nervous.

“Yes. I,” he gulps. “I do. A lot.”

He walks closer to the painting and reads the plaque next to it.

_“Peace of Mind” by Atsumu Miya._

  
  


They go to the beach together again, walking by the shoreline hand in hand. Atsumu asks him if he still hates it there. Kiyoomi leans in closer, the warmth of Atsumu’s body radiating in the cold of winter. He’s always ran hot.

Kiyoomi whispers, “No, it feels like home.”

**Author's Note:**

> me: hey this story is pretty normal  
> my friend: yeah  
> me: let's do it nonlinear then. that would be cool
> 
> i chose maine because it's a very white state and i chose orono specifically because it's a college town. that's about it LMAO. there's no deeper meaning behind it.
> 
> a lot about Sakusa's life is actually inspired by my own. i moved around a lot when i was younger and i spent my formative years in another country. i only moved back to my native country for university.
> 
> as for Atsumu, aspects of his life and how he feels about his heritage is a mish mash of me and the people i knew growing up.
> 
> i lived in a small beachside town for most of my life so that's why the ocean and the sea gets mentioned quite a bit in my fics haha!
> 
> i hope you enjoyed this needlessly brainrot story of mine.
> 
> if you wanna yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/atsumu_twt).


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